


Say You'll See Me Again

by orphan_account



Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Getting Together, Kid Fic, M/M, Parallel Universes, Pining, Time Travel, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The line between dreams and reality is thin at best.Nate's beginning to wish it didn't even exist.





	Say You'll See Me Again

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, and I make no profit for it. Title is from T-Swift's "Wildest Dreams".
> 
> Thank you to everyone who asked for Nate's side. I hadn't intended to write this, but your questions just got me thinking, so here we are. Enjoy!

Bright, blinding light pours in through the windows, and Nate groans. He must have forgotten to shut the curtains last night, too tired after a good training session and an afternoon under the sun.

Annoyed at the prospect of leaving his comfortable spot, he glares over at the curtains and blinks furiously when he sees them.

Those are not his curtains.

Well, they are his curtains, but not in this house. Those belong in Denver.

He looks around, taking in the duvet and the nightstand, the open closet door and the curtains once more. This is Denver, he thinks. This is his room in Denver.

How the fuck is he back in Denver? He left two weeks ago and doesn’t plan to go back for another couple weeks at least. Except he’s back now; he just woke up in his Denver bed in his Denver room with light spilling in from between his Denver curtains.

What the hell is going on?

Confused and still foggy from sleep, he throws the covers back and sits up, shivering when the chill air hits his bare body. He looks down at himself in shock, stares at his shortless legs, and wonders if this is some really awful, tasteless joke that Tyson and EJ cooked up under the influence of one too many pink margaritas.

An unhappy sound comes from his right, and a hand reaches into his field of vision to tug the blankets back into place.

It’s a nice hand, objectively speaking, with blunt fingers and a broad palm.

This is a real shitty joke, and he’s going to kill Tys and EJ as soon as he politely escorts whoever this is out of his bed and into a cab headed somewhere very far away.

With a put-upon sigh, Nate turns, apology on the tip of his tongue, and freezes.

Motherfucker.

Cale, the rookie wonder and his newest teammate, stares back at him with a mildly grumpy expression.

Nate feels blindsided and a little betrayed by the rush of arousal that courses through him when he looks at the broad line of his shoulders and the sculpted planes of his chest.

“Thought you wanted to sleep in,” Cale grumbles, voice sleep-rough, and Nate is incredibly thankful for the blanket now covering him below the waist.

He licks his lips, collecting his thoughts.

There’s no way this is a practical joke; Cale wouldn’t agree to this.

“It’s too bright outside,” Nate says unsteadily, and Cale smiles at him, scooting closer and laying an arm across Nate’s thighs. He presses a kiss to his hip.

“You forgot to shut the curtains last night.”

His mischievous grin apparently really does it for Nate, if the ever-hardening dick is any indication.

“I was a little busy,” Nate replies, and he’s shocked by the flirtatious words and tone, the leer he gives Cale, eyes tracking up and down his body.

Cale grins at him and presses another kiss to his hip. Nate didn’t know he had so many nerve endings there.

“Hey,” Cale says and sits up, blanket pooling in his lap in the most distracting way. “Merry first Christmas.” He lifts a hand to Nate’s jaw, fingers warm and callused, and Nate is so busy trying to understand—it’s May, Christmas is seven months away—that he doesn’t realize Cale is turning his head toward him and bending forward to capture his lips in a less-than-chaste kiss.

Nate’s brain offlines.

Holy fucking shit.

Cale is a good kisser, he thinks, because that’s the easiest thing to focus on right now. Nothing else really makes sense. Not Nate’s presence in Denver, not Cale’s presence in his bed, not the soft Merry Christmas—Merry first Christmas, whatever the hell that means.

He shifts slightly, trying to get into a better position, and Cale curls an arm around his waist to keep him close, tongue pressing insistently against Nate’s just the way he likes it.

Fuck, he’s good.

With a final nip to Nate’s bottom lip, Cale pulls away, and Nate sways into him. He might not understand anything about what’s going on right now, but he does know that he wouldn’t mind trading a hell of a lot more than kisses with Cale.

“You know,” Nate says, taking in Cale’s flushed cheeks and spit-red lips with an inappropriate sense of satisfaction, “this isn’t technically our first Christmas together.”

What the hell? They’ve never spent a Christmas together.

“First married Christmas,” Cale replies, and Nate has to clench his fists to keep from reeling back in surprise. “It’s different.”

Heart pounding, Nate runs the tip of his thumb over the third finger of his left hand and takes a few calming breaths. They aren’t enough to stop him from jumping in shock when he encounters smooth, skin-warm metal.

What the fuck.

This is not a practical joke. The guys would never be this thorough, and Cale would never agree to help them out. He’s too nice for that, too good.

But this isn’t reality either. Nate fell asleep in May in Grand Lake without anyone else in his house, and he woke up in December in Denver with a very naked, very attractive, very married-to-him Cale Makar in his bed.

He’s not sure what this is. A dream? A nightmare? Some weird universe travel like the new Spiderman movie or that episode of South Park? Whatever it is, it’s not real life, and Nate seems to be the only one who realizes that.

Okay, he thinks. Okay.

Clearly, this is not the Cale he knows if the matching ring, confident kisses, and currently sappy look are any indication. This is Nate’s house, but not as he left it. An unfamiliar phone sits beside a water glass on the opposite nightstand. The dresser boasts a collection of framed photos that he’s never seen before—they look like wedding pictures. Holy fuck. He quickly averts his gaze, and it catches on the window, where he can see frost on the glass and snow gathering on the sill. This is not his time either.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, but running away from an unknown situation usually leads to bigger problems if the movies and TV shows are to be believed. Therefore, Nate just needs to stay calm and be observant. That way he can figure out what’s going on and how to get back to his own time in the right house.

“First married Christmas,” Nate repeats, and Cale gives him a bemused look like he finds Nate endearing but is also worried about the extended silence Nate subjected him to as he came up with a plan. (It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than nothing.) “Which makes it the best Christmas,” he says and distracts Cale with another kiss, letting himself really enjoy the wet slide of lips and tongue this time, looping an arm around Cale’s waist and groaning at the feel of warm, bare skin.

Cale makes a delicious sound in return, and Nate wants to push the covers away and get his hands on every inch of exposed skin, wants to crawl over Cale and press him into the mattress, wants to take him apart, learn him inside and out.

It’s a stunning realization, and he thinks he should probably be more concerned about the implications of this, but he also really likes the choked-off moan Cale lets out when Nate’s pinkie grazes his nipple, so he he’s not going to waste any time overthinking this.

“Nate,” Cale whimpers when he pushes at his shoulders, encouraging him to lie down. “Nate.”

Nate hums in reply and trails kisses across a flushed cheek. Cale tilts his head back, angling it to the side until Nate’s lips press into the hollow beneath the corner of his jaw. Nate sucks at the offered skin, and Cale whines brokenly.

“Nate,” he pants. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Why not? Consider it your first Christmas present from me.”

Huffing out a laugh, Cale pushes gently at his jaw. “Our families are just upstairs.”

“That didn’t stop us last night,” Nate counters, the words slipping out without a thought.

He snaps his mouth shut in shock.

Snickering, Cale shakes his head and scoots out of Nate’s reach, climbing out of bed and giving Nate a truly spectacular view of his ass. “It was also two in the morning, and everyone had gone to bed hours before, so I wasn’t worried about being overheard,” he says and pulls a pair of sweatpants out of the dresser, dragging them up his legs before tugging on a shirt as well.

Nate thinks he is going to be distracted by thoughts of Cale going commando for the rest of the day, or however long he’s going to be here.

“Come on,” Cale calls with a wave. “I can hear someone in the kitchen. Let’s go be good hosts.”

Nate pouts but climbs out of the messy bed, shivering when the cool air hits him. “What was even the point of staying naked then?” he complains. “If we aren’t going to take advantage of the lack of clothes, there’s no point.”

Cale shrugs, grinning. “First of all, we took advantage of the lack of clothes last night. Second, I like sleeping naked with you no matter what we’re doing.”

“Soft,” Nate teases, but he still presses a kiss to Cale’s cheek before pulling on a pair of ratty sweats that might not be his and a t-shirt that has seen better days.

“Only for you,” Cale replies. He sneaks another kiss, then heads for the door, pulling it open and making his way to the kitchen, where Nate can hear the clink of ceramic on marble and the bubbling hiss of the coffee maker.

“Can you pass the sugar?” he hears Sarah ask, followed by the rough, scraping slide of the sugar jar.

“Morning,” Cale greets and goes to pull a mug down from the cabinet. He fills it with steaming coffee and adds a splash of milk before passing it off to Nate and filling a glass with orange juice.

“Sickeningly domestic,” Sarah comments, and Nate turns to protest. He doesn’t get the words out though because there’s someone standing a few feet away from her that he’s never seen before. He’s tall and lean and looks way too young for her.

“At least they’re clothed,” the guy supplies, crinkling his nose.

“You should have knocked,” Cale says with a dirty look and steps closer to Nate, leaning into his side as he sips at his orange juice. Nate shifts easily to accommodate him. “And we still had pants on, so I don’t get why you have to keep bringing it up.”

The guy scoffs. “You barely had pants on. And anyways, the lack of clothing was really secondary to the knowledge that I had walked in on you two about to do the deed. You really need to get better with locks.”

Cale’s cheeks flush a vibrant red that Nate wants to feel beneath his fingers or against his chest. “Usually we don’t have to lock our bedroom door,” Cale sputters. “We’re just not used to having people around to walk in on us.”

“Gross,” Sarah says and shares a commiserating look with the guy.

Nate decides this has to be Cale’s brother, not some boy that Sarah brought home for Christmas. He’s too comfortable teasing Cale and too relaxed in a kitchen that’s not his own for it to be anyone else.

“Thank goodness you two have each other to complain to then,” Nate tells them and holds his mug up in a salute.

Sarah rolls her eyes, but she clinks her half-full mug against the brother’s, and they both take a drink.

“Are any of the parents up yet?” Cale asks. His fingers are fiddling with the waistband of Nate’s sweatpants, following the line of fabric and occasionally brushing bare skin. Nate doesn’t even think he’s aware of it.

“Mom was down here for a couple minutes,” the brother responds. “She went back upstairs to wake up Dad, so they should be down soon.”

“I think Mom and Dad are awake,” Sarah adds, “but neither has made an appearance. I’m pretty sure Mom was serious when she said she’d only come down when she could smell breakfast.”

Nate snorts. “Probably. What do you think about waffles?”

Sarah and the brother nod in approval.

“We also have the bacon and enough eggs to fry,” Cale says.

Decided, Nate starts to pull ingredients out of the fridge, and they set to work, mixing the batter and cutting up fruit to go on top. He and Cale work around each other with a practiced ease, nudging with elbows or a hand on a hip when they need to get somewhere. At one point, Nate catches Sarah smiling softly at them, but she rolls her eyes when she notices his curious gaze.

The parents do make it down once the smell of fresh waffles and sizzling bacon is thick in the air, and they demolish the food before moving to the living room for presents.

When Nate sees the tree there, his breath catches. It’s a towering fir, wreathed in glowing lights and sparkling ornaments, with a pile of presents beneath. He’s had trees before, but none like this. None that looked like something a family would have.

Cale gives him a curious look when Nate doesn’t move for a moment, fingers squeezing comfortingly around his, and Nate shakes himself.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and Cale lifts a shoulder.

“That’s okay. I think we did a pretty good job of decorating, so I understand.”

Laughing, Nate shakes his head at him. “We had to google it. Who googles Christmas tree decorating?”

“People who want a nice tree for their first Christmas as a family,” Cale replies, simple and straightforward, and Nate’s chest feels uncomfortably tight.

“Yeah,” he breathes out and sways forward to press a firm kiss to Cale’s lips, catching his left hand to trace over the ring there.

“Booooo.”

Nate pulls back and casts a dirty look at Sarah. She immediately points to Taylor (thankfully Nate had learned his name during breakfast), and he scrunches his face in disagreement.

“Oh, leave them alone,” Kathy says, swatting at Sarah. “It hasn’t even been a year; they’re allowed to act like newlyweds.”

“They were already living together before that though,” Taylor says. “Getting married shouldn’t change anything.”

The six married people in the room give him looks of disbelief or derision.

“Okay then,” he mutters, and Sarah pats his back in sympathy.

“We should withhold your presents for that,” Nate tells them and tugs Cale toward the empty loveseat, pulling him down beside him.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sarah says, and Nate shrugs, curling an arm around Cale’s shoulder as he reclines against him.

Sarah scoffs but falls silent, leaning back into the couch with a grumpy look on her face that Nate doesn’t believe for a minute.

He still gives her the spa retreat that he and Cale had consulted their moms about before buying, and he grins widely when she jumps up and flings herself across the room to hug them.

The other presents are opened and fawned over, and they spend the rest of the day on the couch, chatting around the crackling fire and watching old Christmas movies while they munch on the chocolates their parents brought from home.

It’s a nice Christmas, even if it isn’t real, and a part of Nate doesn’t want it to end, but when Cale stands up and offers him a hand, Nate decides that going to bed wouldn’t be so bad.

He follows Cale to their bedroom and stares as he pulls his clothes off, dropping them in the bin in the closet before crawling under the covers. He looks at Nate expectantly, and Nate hurries to get out of his own clothes, flinging them through the open door and climbing in beside Cale.

“You’re going to pick those up in the morning,” Cale tells him, turning to snuggle up against Nate’s side.

“Of course,” Nate replies and presses a kiss to Cale’s hair.

“Love you,” Cale murmurs, already sounding half-asleep, and Nate heart stutters painfully.

“I love you, too,” he says and doesn’t know how to feel when the words come easily.

Cale hums and busses a kiss to his chest.

\----

When Nate wakes up, he stretches an arm over the covers and is surprised when he encounters cool, empty sheets.

He sits up immediately.

Those are his Grand Lake curtains. That’s the right nightstand and dresser. There’s no one else in his bed and no scattered reminders of a shared life that’s not his.

Shaking his head to clear it, Nate grabs his phone and googles time travel. Then alternate universes. Then parallel dimensions.

The internet is less than helpful, producing millions of results from convoluted PhD talk to wonky conspiracy theories to weird Netflix suggestions. He tries his best to wade through the material, but there’s so much, and though he had intended to focus on observation and reconnaissance, he will admit that he’d been slightly distracted by Christmas and their families and the knowledge that Cale had nothing on underneath his sweats all day.

After too many hours reading about quantum physics and divine intervention, Nate’s head hurts and he’s no closer to understanding what happened or why it happened. He sets his phone down with a sigh and crawls out of bed.

If he feels a bit lonelier than he normally would going about his daily routine, no one is around to see it, and if he gets off in the shower to thoughts of Cale’s warm, solid body, no one is around to hear the embarrassing sounds he makes.

\----

When he goes to bed that night, apprehension and excitement churn in his stomach.

He kind of wants to return to that perfect Christmas, wants to wake up with Cale again and convince him to stay in bed this time.

But he also has no idea what to do with a naked Cale in his bed. Well, he knows what to do in theory, but he’s never gone beyond that, and he thinks he should be a little worried about how much he wants to.

With Cale though. Just Cale.

That should probably worry him most of all, but he falls asleep before the panic can set in, and he sleeps through the night, no crazy travels, not even any dreams he can remember.

He doesn’t travel the next night either, and after a week of uninterrupted sleep, Nate decides it must have been a fluke or a disturbingly elaborate dream.

\----

He wakes up sprawled across a warm, bare chest.

What the fuck?

Heart thumping loudly, he pulls away and props himself up to get a look at whoever the hell is in his bed, ready to defend himself or attack depending on the situation.

He sees Cale, face slack with sleep, and relaxes instantly, a strange sense of relief washing through him.

This must be another weird time travel/alternate dimension thing. Which means the first wasn’t some post-elimination, disappointment-fueled accident. (He can’t actually explain the connection between their playoffs exit and his weirdly intimate, domestic dream about a teammate, but the theory had made sense after a couple of beers.) He’s back and in bed with Cale.

Exhaling slowly, he tries to come up with a better plan than ‘sit and watch’.

Last time, it had been one day in the other world (or the future, a small voice whispers), so he is going to assume that this is the same. One day before he wakes up back in Grand Lake to his empty house and emptier bed.

He should probably focus on figuring out why this has happened again, but Cale is right there, looking sleep-mused and soft, so he decides that can wait. With an almost giddy anticipation, he lowers himself enough to suck a kiss into the hollow of Cale’s throat, working the skin over thoroughly until it slides from between his teeth, a wet, ruddy red.

“Nate,” Cale mumbles, mouth slow in sleep, “what’re you doing?” His eyes flutter open, and he gives Nate a drowsy smile that sends heat low in his belly.

“Waking you up,” Nate replies breathlessly and sets his teeth against the fragile skin of his throat once more.

Cale moans, one hand lifting to fist in Nate’s hair, the other sliding over his hip. He tips his head back to give Nate more space. “This is definitely better than the alarm.”

Nate hums in agreement and nips at his bottom lip, shifting until he is braced over Cale.

“What time is it?” Cale asks, and he hooks a leg over Nate’s hip to pull him closer, rocking up in an impressive display of core strength.

Nate can’t really think much beyond ‘Holy shit, wonder if he can do that when we have sex’ and ‘God, he’s perfect’.

“Dunno,” Nate finally says, and he peppers kisses across Cale’s cheeks and nose in quick bursts.

He wants that to be the end of it, but Cale’s lips twist in a frown and he reaches an arm out to pull one of their phones close.

“We have twenty minutes,” he says mournfully when the screen lights up, and Nate groans, knowing instinctually that that won’t be enough time for what he wants.

“We can work with that,” he says, already thinking about all the things they could do instead, all the things he’s thought about since the last dream vision travel. “We’ll have to save the real fun stuff for later, but there’s still plenty we can do.”

Beneath him, Cale laughs and loops his arms around Nate’s neck to pull him in for another kiss, mouth opening at the first press of Nate’s tongue to his lips. Nate groans at the hot slide and rolls their hips together, unhappy with the thin layers that still separate them and wishing they had woken up naked like last time.

This Cale doesn’t look too different from how he does now, so if this is the same universe as last time, Nate could just be at an earlier point. Or if this is his own universe, he could have jumped just a year or two into the future. Either is possible.

“Is there still lube in your nightstand?” he asks, reaching a hand out to pull the drawer open like he already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” Cale breathes, and Nate fishes it out from under a couple of old Flames tickets (he should convince Cale to throw those out) and a surely-expired granola bar. He lifts it in the air with a triumphant noise, and Cale rolls his eyes, laughing.

“You’re a dork,” but he says it so fondly that Nate doesn’t believe him for a second.

“You must be one, too, then because like attracts like, and I’d say the attraction is pretty high here.”

Cale’s laughter only increases. “Oh my god, where’d you get that from?” he asks between breaths, and Nate pouts.

“I made that up myself, just now on the spot. That was an original Nathan MacKinnon Line™ you just heard.”

Cale laughs harder.

Nate sets the bottle of lube aside and bites at his jaw in retaliation, fingers ghosting up his sides lightly enough to tickle.

“Don’t!” Cale cries immediately, trying to grab Nate’s hand. “Nate, don’t!”

“You were making fun of my smooth lines,” Nate complains, dragging his fingers back down Cale’s sides, eliciting another round of uncontrolled laughter. “This is payback.”

“Stop!” he shouts, wiggling beneath him, trying to put distance between his bare skin and Nate’s unforgiving fingers.

Nate doesn’t really want to stop, finds he quite likes the sight and sound of Cale’s laughter, but the way Cale moves has one knee pressing between Nate’s legs, rubbing against his dick in a rough slide, and it feels stupidly good.

“Fine,” he huffs, settling his hands more firmly against Cale’s sides. “You win.”

Flushed and breathless, Cale grins up at him. “I feel like we could make this a win-win situation, so no one has to be a loser.”

Nate snorts. “Now who has the lame lines,” he says and dips down for a kiss before Cale can respond.

It’s softer than before, slower. Nate braces himself on an elbow and lets the other hand stroke down Cale’s leg and hook behind his knee, fingers curling around the firm muscle of his calf as he pulls him closer. Cale lets out a whine when Nate grinds against him, pressing their hips together and circling slowly.

“Nate,” he pants out, drawing his other leg up so he can hook his ankles in the small of Nate’s back.

“Yeah,” Nate answers and picks up speed. “Yeah, Cale, I know.”

“We should—” Cale gasps, “we should get our clothes off.”

On a particularly firm thrust, he tosses his head back and rakes a hand through Nate’s hair, tugging the smallest bit, and Nate moans. Fuck, that’s good.

A sudden pounding at the door has Nate rolling away quickly as Cale drags the blanket up enough to cover the most incriminating evidence of their morning activities.

“Get up and get dressed,” someone yells from the other side of the door. The voice is vaguely familiar, but Nate can’t place it. “Breakfast is on the table, so if you want to eat it while it’s still hot, I suggest you stop humping like teenagers and put some clothes on.”

“Taylor!” Cale shouts, scandalized, and Nate can practically feel the lightbulb illuminate above his head. Taylor, Cale’s brother, of course.

“Don’t even, dude. My room is right down the hall.” With that he walks away, feet treading loudly down the stairs.

The words confuse Nate, and he looks around in surprise.

Oh.

They’re not in Denver.

Nate has never seen this room before, isn’t familiar with the trophy-lined shelves or the blue flannel sheets. When he catches sight of the Hobey Baker, nestled among the other awards like it’s no big deal, he realizes this must be Cale’s room. They must be in Calgary.

“Oh my god,” Cale groans. “Do you think he could hear us?”

Nate shrugs. “I don’t think we were being that loud,” he says and climbs out of bed, shuffling over to his suitcase. “He probably just assumed we were doing something.”

Cale doesn’t look convinced, but he follows Nate’s lead and dresses for morning skate.

As soon as they’re clothed, they head downstairs, and Nate’s mouth waters over the breakfast laid out on the table. This is way better than staying at the hotel.

“Good morning,” Laura greets warmly, setting a pan of eggs next to the pancakes and taking a seat beside Gary.

“It is, isn’t it?” Taylor responds with a knowing smirk, and Cale flushes, cheeks lighting up damningly.

Gary clears his throat and gives Taylor a meaningful look. Nate can feel his own cheeks warm. “When do you boys need to be at practice?”

“Ten,” Cale replies, still red as a tomato. “We should be back in time for lunch.”

Gary nods, and Laura tells them to serve themselves.

As they eat, they chat about the game that night, the good season they’re having, the likelihood of making the playoffs and winning the Cup. It’s easy and comfortable, and Nate feels like a part of the family, though his finger quite obviously lacks the ring that it possessed in the last travel. This is a few years before that though. If it’s the same universe, that is.

When they’ve finished, they bid the Makars goodbye, and Cale drives them to the rink, still obsessing over whether or not Taylor could hear them from his bedroom.

“Do you think he’s always been able to hear us though?” His face goes pale. “Do you think he heard us when you came to visit over the summer? Oh my god, do you think he heard us that first night?” He looks horrified and nauseous, so Nate reaches a hand out, rests it on his thigh, and kneads the tense muscle, trying not to imagine what they must’ve gotten up to that would have Cale so embarrassed months later.

“I don’t think he heard anything this morning, and I don’t think he’s heard us before. There’s no way he wouldn’t have said anything about it.” The words seem to provide little comfort. “Anyways,” Nate continues as they climb out of the car and make their way inside, “even if he did hear us that first night, it’s not a big deal. Now he just knows how good his brother is with his hands and dick.”

“Oh my god,” Cale groans, not at all reassured, and Nate bumps their shoulders together with a devious grin. “He does not need to know that. He absolutely does not need to know that.”

“Need to know what?” Kerf asks from his stall.

“Nothing,” Cale mutters and strides quickly to his own locker.

Kerf looks at Nate, “Know what?” and Nate shrugs.

“Know what?” Josty demands, bright-eyed and curious.

“Nothing.”

Comph snorts. “No way, it’s definitely something. Who doesn’t need to know what?”

“None of your business.”

“Nate,” Josty whines petulantly. Kid isn’t even a rookie anymore, but he sure as hell still acts like one.

Nate huffs in annoyance, and Josty pouts. “Fine,” Nate sighs. “Just like you, Taylor doesn’t need to know that Cale can find a prostate in less than a minute and knows exactly what to do when he does.”

Josty’s mouth drops open in shock, and he sputters nonsensically. Comph turns bright red, and Kerf just looks mildly impressed. Whoops break out around the locker room, and Nate can see Cale duck his head, eyes fixed on his shin pads.

“That’ll be fifty dollars,” EJ yells over everyone, holding an imperious hand out towards Nate.

“No it won’t!” Nate protests, leaving the stammering rookies-no-longer-rookies behind as he heads for his own locker. “I did not volunteer that information willingly. Josty pestered me into it.”

“That’s technically true,” Tyson says, and Nate reaches out to give his bestest buddy a fist bump.

“There was minimal pestering,” EJ argues, but Nate shrugs, and no one seems too worried about making him pay, most just laughing at the outraged look on Josty’s face.

During practice, the guys make a couple jokes, and Nate laughs each time he sees Cale shoot him a betrayed look, cheeks red and eyes wide in shock or horror.

On the drive back, he reaches out and takes Cale’s hand, lifting it to press a kiss to the back. “The guys weren’t too hard on you, were they?”

“No,” he mumbles, cheeks flushing once more. “I could handle the chirps. They were just payback for you telling the whole team about our sex life.”

Nate scoffs. “It’s not like I gave any details. Saying you can find a prostate is really tame compared to the stories I could tell about what you can do when you find it.”

The flush deepens. “Yes, well, those are not stories the team needs to hear. Ever.”

“No, they’re not,” Nate agrees with an absurd wiggle of his brows.

Cale clears his throat. “Right, so the chirps weren’t a big deal because I know they won’t bring it up again.” He shifts in his seat, left hand flexing on the wheel. “What was weird was the guys who seemed to actually want to know more.”

“They wanted to know more?” Nate asks, horrified. “You didn’t tell them anything, did you?”

“Not about us! I mean they wanted to know more about how to…you know…how to…”

“How to have gay sex?”

“Not exactly,” Cale huffs. “But in that vein, yeah.”

The horror quickly shifts to delight. “Oh my god, you gave our teammates advice on how to get pegged, didn’t you? Holy shit, that’s hilarious!”

“It wasn’t hilarious in the moment,” Cale grumbles, but there’s a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth, and Nate squeezes his hand.

“Cale Makar,” he grins, “wonder kid and sex adviser.”

Cale huffs out a laugh. “Next time, I’m going to send them all over to you, and you can deal with awkward questions about the best kinds of lube and how much prep is enough.”

Nate’s brow furrows. “Hey, why didn’t anyone come ask me?”

“Because you always have your mean face on during practice.”

“I do not.”

“You definitely do. It’s intimidating.”

Nate pouts.

“And kind of hot, so don’t get too worked up about it,” Cale tells him, squeezing his hand, and Nate leers in return.

Before he can say anything more, they pull into the driveway and go inside to eat lunch with Laura, talking about practice and the epic whiff Tyson had on an empty netter.

They help with the dishes, even though Laura promises she can do them herself, and head upstairs for a pre-game nap, curling together under the covers. Nate’s chest feels tight when Cale presses back into him and drags his arm over his waist, rearranging arms and legs until they’re touching from head to toe.

\----

He slips into consciousness slowly, limbs heavy with sleep, and shuffles forward to bury his head in Cale’s hair.

He ends up nuzzling a pillow and immediately reels back, one hand snaking out to feel across the covers for the body that should be there. His bed is empty though, and his fingers slide uselessly over the sheets, searching for something—someone—that was never really there.

Oh.

Oh.

When he and Cale had settled in for their nap, he hadn’t even considered waking up back in his own house, had been certain that he would have a full day in the other world.

His hand reaches the edge of the bed, nothing but cool sheets beneath it, and he realizes his mistake. It wasn’t the end of the day that brought him back last time. It was the sleep.

He’s disappointed, and he doesn’t know what to think of that, how to feel about it.

A week ago, he would have been ecstatic to know that sleep was enough to bring him back to the right time and place. He would have rolled over as soon as he woke up and forced himself to fall back to sleep.

Now…

Now, he’s not so sure he wouldn’t try and stay awake as long as he could to delay his return.

He knows it’s not reality—at least not his reality—but a part of him doesn’t want to let it go. Being with Cale is easy, right. Nate doesn’t feel the mild anxiety that accompanied him in previous relationships when they’d met each other’s families or talked about the future. He doesn’t worry about saying the wrong thing or not saying enough. He feels like he can just _be_ with Cale, no fuss, no complications.

Obviously, the Cale of his dream travels doesn’t know that he’s not his Nate and he’d probably act very differently if he did, but that doesn’t stop Nate from looking or wanting. Anyways, if the Nate of that world is anything like him, he wouldn’t begrudge Nate his less-than-innocent thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, he pulls himself out of bed and gets ready for the day, feeling unsettled and off-balance each time he turns to say something and finds the empty space where Cale should be.

He thinks he should probably worry about how quickly he accepts and adjusts to Cale’s near-constant presence, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he heads to his gym to train, spends the afternoon at his parents, and ends up staying the night because, for the first time in a long time, the quiet stillness of his house is too much.

\----

A wet heat encases one of Nate’s nipples, and he arches into it, eyes flying open.

Looking down, he recognizes the messy brown hair immediately.

Oh fuck. Oh _yes._

It’s been weeks—fucking weeks—of boring, hazy dreams. Nate had even started to wonder if he would have another dream travel or if he had had the last, unbeknownst to him, and the thought had hurt more than he expected.

Cale bites at the rosy bud, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin, and Nate gasps at the suction that follows, overwhelmed and more than half-hard already. He plants a foot on the bed and pushes up against Cale’s stomach, relishing the friction and grinning when Cale groans.

“Good morning,” Nate says giddily and runs his fingers through Cale’s hair.

Cale lifts his head enough to return the greeting before starting in on the other nipple, lips wet and red.

“Our anniversary was two months ago,” It was? “And my birthday isn’t until next month. What did I do to deserve this kind of wakeup call?”

Cale tries to shrug, but it doesn’t work with the way he is bent over Nate, mouth still firmly attached to his chest. “You’re just you,” he mutters and begins to trail kisses down Nate’s stomach, getting closer and closer to where Nate is hard and aching.

There’s a loud shriek from somewhere in the house, and Cale rears back, scrambling away from Nate and to his side of the bed, panic writ across his face. Seconds later, the bedroom door crashes open, and a small person comes flying in, throwing herself on the bed.

“First day of school! First day of school!” she chants, kicking and flailing her arms in excitement. “You have to get up. We need to go to school!”

Nate blinks at her in shock. Is this—? Is she—?

“Abbs,” Cale groans, grabbing one of her ankles before she can kick him, “we don’t need to leave for an hour at least.”

“Only an hour!”

Nate looks at his hands. They’re married again.

He looks over at Cale. He’s older by a decade at least.

He looks at the smiling girl. They have kids—a kid. Which explains the shorts. They must have nixed the naked or near-naked sleep, knowing that little kids could come bursting in at any time.

He wonders if this is the same universe as the others.

He wonders if this is his universe, ten or fifteen years from now.

“How about you go put on the outfit that you picked out last night,” Cale suggests, “and Papa and I can start on breakfast?”

At the last word, she perks up, eyes going wide and pleading. “Can we have pancakes, Dad? Please? With chocolate chips?”

“With blueberries,” Cale says, and she seems to consider the offer seriously, face scrunching up in concentration.

They have the most beautiful little girl in the world, Nate decides.

She nods once. “Blueberries,” she agrees. “And strawberries on top?”

“Of course,” Cale says gravely, and Abby grins. She tosses her arms around Cale, squeezing his neck, and Nate wants to grab his phone and take a picture. It’s just an arm’s length away, resting on the nightstand, but that’s this Nate’s phone, so any pictures he takes will stay in this time or universe. He can’t bring them back, can’t pull them up on his phone and remind himself of the perfect, little family he has—had—could have.

Fuck.

Instead, he watches Cale return the hug until the girl squeals and demands to be let go before he squeezes her to death. Cale releases her with a disbelieving scoff, and Nate leans over to plant a kiss on his neck, chaste but intimate, feeling too much at once. Cale’s smile softens, settles into something private, and Nate desperately wishes he could wake up to that smile every morning.

“Can we also have bananas on the pancakes?” Abbs—Abby?—asks, grinning up at them.

Nate pulls away from Cale and his tempting lips and breathtaking, blue eyes (how has he never noticed them before?) to ruffle her hair. “Absolutely, little monkey. Go get dressed first though.”

With an energetic nod, she bounds out of the room, and Nate swallows thickly as she goes, absentmindedly spinning his ring around his finger.

Cale slides out of bed, crosses the room, and pulls a random shirt out of the dresser, tugging it over his head before tossing one to Nate. “You take breakfast, I’ll take the kids?” he asks, and Nate blinks at him.

There’s more than one? They have _kids_?

Nate nods mutely, and Cale steps forward to buss a quick kiss to his hair. Then, he heads out the door, Nate scrambling to follow behind him.

Thankfully, they’re back in Denver this time, so he has no trouble getting to the kitchen and finding the ingredients he needs, though some things have been rearranged, added, or tossed out.

He mixes the batter and has the first batch on the griddle, when Abby tears into the kitchen. “Papa, I’m ready!” she shouts, holding her arms up and spinning in a circle to show off her outfit: bright blue tights, a sparkly skirt, and an Avs jersey that’s clearly custom.

Nate’s heart thuds in his chest at the sight.

“You look great, kiddo. Now you just need to be careful to not spill anything on it during breakfast.”

She huffs. “I’m not a baby, Papa.”

“Of course, you’re not,” Nate replies and scoops the finished pancakes off the griddle, pouring fresh batter before carrying the plate over to the table. “You’re a big girl going to big girl school.”

“First grade,” she says in awe, and Nate presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “It’s going to be amazing.”

“Yes, it will.”

Nate returns to his post and is promptly met with a tiny body stumbling into his side, hands fisting in the leg of his shorts.

“Papa,” a little boy smiles up at him. “Papa make breakfast.” He fumbles with the r, mouth clumsy around the sound, and Nate is immediately endeared. He bends down to kiss the boy’s cheeks and lifts him into the air so he can see the pancakes cooking.

“Yes, this is breakfast. Do you want to help?”

The boy nods eagerly, making grabby hands for the spatula, and Nate helps him curl a fist around it and gently flip the pancakes over. Some end up a little folded or merged together, but they’ll still taste fine.

“Dad,” Abby calls from the table, “can I have milk?”

Nate turns to see Cale watching him from the other side of the kitchen, smiling fondly as Nate guides their son through the art of pancake flipping.

“Can you have milk what?” Cale says back, not looking away from Nate.

She sighs. “Can I have milk, please?” and Cale turns his smile on her, grabbing the jug from the fridge before pouring her a glass.

When the rest of the pancakes have cooked, Nate joins them at the table, cutting one into pieces for Noah (he learned his name when Cale had to reach out and stop him from putting a hand on the hot griddle) while Abby tells them all about the friends that she is going to make and the things she’ll learn from Ms. Martin, the best teacher in the world.

They drop her off at school earlier than necessary at her insistence, and she waves enthusiastically as they pull away, quickly turning back to her new classmates when they’re nearly out of sight. Nate thinks he can see Cale wipe at his eyes, but he doesn’t comment because he’s feeling a little misty-eyed himself. Abby may not be _his_ his, but she’s this Nate’s daughter, and that’s what matters.

At home, they set Noah up with toys and picture books in the corner of what used to be Nate’s den but has now been refurbished into a kid-friendly home gym.

Parenthood really changes you, Nate thinks.

They go through a workout together, and Nate wonders if it would be this easy to work out with his Cale, moving around each other seamlessly, or if that’s just a product of this Nate and Cale’s many years together. He kind of wants to find out.

Afterwards, they take turns in the shower so Noah is never left alone and head off to lunch with Gabe, who has apparently been banished from his home for the afternoon by a pregnant Mel who can no longer handle his hovering.

“It’s doting,” Gabe corrects, making faces at Noah where he sits in his high chair. “I am doting on my wife.”

“I don’t think changing the word changes how annoying it is for Mel,” Nate points out.

“Yes it does. Different word, different connotation.”

“I don’t get it,” Cale muses as he offers Noah a spoonful of soup. “It’s not like this is your first kid. Shouldn’t you be calmer the second time around? I mean, I know it’s not quite the same for us, but it was a lot easier the second time because we knew what to expect.”

“Every child is different.”

Cale shrugs. “I don’t think that justifies the excessive hovering—doting.”

“It’s not excessive.”

They give him matching looks of disbelief, and Noah giggles at him.

Gabe’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Okay, it might be a little excessive. It’s just that I wasn’t around half the time with Astrid because of games and practice, and I feel like I need to make up for that. And Mel isn’t as young this time, so there’s a whole lot more that could go wrong.”

Nate reaches out and squeezes Gabe’s shoulders. “She’s going to be fine, and the baby is going to be fine.”

“Yes. You also need to stop watching all of those dumb docudramas about births gone wrong,” Cale adds. “Those are rare cases. You need to stop acting like every possible bad thing is going to happen.”

“It could happen,” Gabe argues, but he looks a bit sheepish, even as he says it.

“Which is why you have great doctors,” Cale says, and then he distracts them all with talk about the incoming rookies and the rule changes the higher-ups have yet to agree on, offering Noah spoonfuls of soup each time he pats at his arm.

Nate really wants a picture to help him remember this moment.

When they leave Gabe, he seems slightly less harried, though only slightly. He gives them both a hug and thanks them, and they make their way to the car to pick up Abby, who has a million and one stories about what she ate for lunch, the picture of a sunflower that she got to color, and the new best friends she made, Martina and Shawn.

“Can we have mac and cheese for dinner?” she asks. “Mac and cheese with trees?”

Nate has no idea what that means.

“Sounds delicious,” Cale replies. “Green trees and white trees?”

“Yes!”

At home, Abby tosses her backpack onto one of the armchairs and declares it hockey time.

“Dad, you can be the goalie, and Papa, you can try and score. I’ll be on defense.”

“What about Noah?” Nate asks, and Noah looks up with eager eyes.

Abby considers him for a moment. “He can be your wing,” she decides, and Noah smiles, one tiny hand reaching out to grab at Nate’s fingers.

They play ball hockey in the basement, running around another room that has clearly been redone since kids entered the picture, and Nate soaks in every minute of it, cellying with Noah when he whacks at the ball and manages to score or cheering for Abby when she gets a good stop.

Afterwards, they crowd into the kitchen and make mac and cheese. The trees turn out to be broccoli and cauliflower, and he wonders if they learned that trick from some parenting book.

Post-dinner involves a game of Candyland that Nate doesn’t really understand—he thinks Abby might be making up some of the rules—and a bath time that Noah vehemently protests.

Nate comes out a bit wetter than he’d like, but he doesn’t really care because he’s putting his kids to bed, reading them stories that his mom used to read to him, and leaving with goodnight kisses that make his heart melt in the best and worst way.

Back in their room, he tosses his wet clothes in the laundry and crawls into bed beside Cale, reaching a hand out to tuck him closer. Cale hums and turns for a slow, sleepy kiss that Nate would really like to make more, but being a parent is exhausting, and he can feel himself sliding into unconsciousness before he’s ready.

\----

Fuck.

FUCK.

He punches a fist into his pillow and curses himself for falling asleep too quickly.

His bed is cold and Cale-less, and while that had been the norm a month ago, he kind of hates it now.

He hates the near-silence of his house, hates the void in his life he hadn’t noticed until he realized there was someone who could fill it, hates himself for wanting something that isn’t really his and likely never will be.

Granted, there’s a small chance that he and Cale could become more than just teammates, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon, if ever.

He doesn’t even know if Cale is into guys.

He doesn’t even know if _he_ is into guys.

He’s into Cale, sure, but Nate’s an adult and understands that sexuality isn’t quite as black and white as it’s made out to be. He’s into Cale, but that doesn’t mean he’s into other guys. Actually, when he thinks about it, the thought makes him a little sick, but he doesn’t know if that’s because they’re guys or because they’re not Cale.

Shit, this is confusing.

Groaning, he hauls himself out of bed and starts his day.

\----

He doesn’t travel that night or the next, and he starts counting the days, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

\----

“So what are you saying? That we won’t be able to?”

Nate looks around himself in shock.

An unfamiliar woman sits behind a large, paper-filled desk, lips drawn in a thin line as she looks at him—at them, he corrects, when he becomes aware of Cale’s hand wrapped tight around his.

He panics because this is different. He’s always woken up in a travel like it’s any other day, but now he’s just popped into the world and right into what seems to be a very serious meeting, if Cale’s face is anything to go by.

“I’m not saying that,” the woman tells them in a calm voice. Cale looks younger than last time but older than the first time, and Nate decides they must be sometime in between—assuming this is all the same timeline or universe, of course, which seems more and more likely with every travel he has. “I’m saying that this is going to be a bit more challenging than we initially thought. It’s a unique situation and therefore requires more time.”

“Unique how?” Cale demands, fingers clenched around Nate’s. “Because we’re both men? Is that seriously still an issue?”

Nate gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and Cale relaxes minutely.

“No,” the woman—Jennifer Hatch according to her nameplate—quickly says. “While there are a number of parents that do not want their children going into a same-sex household, they are very much the minority.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Cale asks as Nate replays the words in his head.

Children. Parents. They’re adopting! Or trying to adopt but have encountered some unanticipated roadblocks.

“The biggest concern is your schedule,” she says matter-of-factly. “No one is worried about your ability to provide for a child’s material needs what with your salaries, but emotional needs are just as important as physical needs. As professional athletes, you spend a great deal of time on the road, away from your homes and families.”

This may not be Nate’s time or world, but he is outraged on behalf of this Nate as he listens to the woman.

“We’re here way more than we’re away,” he says forcefully. “The season is six months, and less than half of that is spent on the road.”

“And our families have both said they would be more than willing to come to Denver and be there to watch our baby when we have to be out of town,” Cale adds. “They always come for part of the season anyways, so it wouldn’t be a big change for them.”

Jennifer nods in understanding. “I know that, and I understand how much you two have done and will do to ensure your children have everything they need, both physically and emotionally. I do not doubt your abilities as parents, but I am not the only person who has a say in this process.”

Shoulders sagging, Cale sighs. “It’s already been a year though,” he says, and Nate’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “A whole year, and we haven’t even made it to interviews with any of the parents.”

Jennifer’s lips twist unhappily. “I know. I am doing everything I can, and I promise that I won’t stop until we find a match. Unfortunately, it’s just taking a little bit longer than we had initially anticipated.”

Cale lets out a practiced breath, and the fierce grip he has on Nate’s hand loosens. “Of course,” he says. “We knew it wouldn’t be quick when we first applied, and we’re willing to wait however long it takes.”

Nate doesn’t doubt the truth of the words, but he can tell how difficult it is for Cale to say them, to be accepting and respectful in the face of such bad news.

“I appreciate that,” Jennifer tells them. “Hopefully I will have better news the next time you come to my office.”

Cale quirks his lips in a small, polite smile, but he doesn’t say anything. Nate reaches across the desk to shake Jennifer’s hand, and they walk out of the office in silence, waving to the receptionist when she grins brightly at them.

When they get to the car, Nate has another small moment of panic when Cale heads for the passenger door. Fuck, he thinks. He can’t drive; he has no idea where they are and no idea how to get home. He unlocks the car and turns his head this way and that, trying to find anything he recognizes.

Please, let them be in Denver or in Nova Scotia. Please, don’t let this be Calgary or some other city he doesn’t know.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the Thai restaurant that Tyson’s obsessed with and lets out a sigh of relief. Denver, they’re in Denver.

He climbs behind the wheel and pulls out of the lot, grabbing Cale’s hand when they hit the highway and squeezing gently. Cale doesn’t turn away from the window where he’s staring out at the skyline disinterestedly, but he does return the gesture.

Nate swallows the lump in his throat.

At home, Cale slides out of the car, walks inside, and disappears into the bedroom without a word. Nate watches him go, heart thumping painfully.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. This may be his house, but it’s their home. He doesn’t know how to act, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to go comfort Cale, doesn’t know if he could handle holding him and promising him a future that Nate himself won’t be a part of.

He rubs at his eyes when the first tears begin to appear and takes a seat on the sofa, exhaling shakily as he rests his head in his hands.

The house is quiet and still, and Nate yearns for the patter of Abby and Noah’s feet, their boisterous laughter and playful shouts. The silence is too much; it presses in at him from every side and makes his skin crawl and his eyes water.

A door clicks open, and Nate can hear the soft padding of bare feet.

“Nate, what are you doing?” Cale asks softly, and Nate raises his head, takes in the slumped posture and red-rimmed eyes, and wants to reach out and touch, wants to pull Cale to him and promise all those things he knows he can’t have.

He shrugs helplessly.

A tremulous smile tugs at Cale’s lips, and he extends a hand toward Nate. “Come to bed,” he says, and Nate follows.

In their room, the curtains are all drawn, shrouding everything in darkness, and Nate carefully closes the door behind them before climbing into bed after Cale.

Tentatively, he reaches a hand out, and Cale immediately comes closer, burying his head against Nate’s chest and letting out a heartbreaking sound. Nate wraps his arms around him as tightly as he can and aches when Cale’s tears begin to wet his shirt, hot and salty and terrible.

He holds him close and cries as well. Cries for Cale, who will be such a good dad but has to keep waiting because others doubt him. Cries for the Nate of this world, who doesn’t get to be here to comfort his husband. And selfishly, Nate cries for himself because he doesn’t have this life.

He will wake up in his big, empty house without Cale in his bed and without Abby and Noah running around, wild and happy. He will wake up alone, something that used to be normal but now feels foreign and strange, and know that he could have so much more.

“What if they never find a match?” Cale finally asks, voice hushed and raw.

Nate’s heart aches. “They will.”

“You can’t know that.”

But he does. He’s seen their kids, held them, loved them. “Maybe not,” he agrees because he can’t say any of that, “but I believe it.”

Cale is quiet for a minute, one hand tracing senseless patterns into Nate’s back, and Nate noses at his hair, presses delicate kisses to the soft strands.

“How can you be so sure?” he asks, and Nate hates the uncertainty he can hear in Cale’s tone.

He tucks him closer and hitches a leg over his. “Because everything has worked out so far,” he says and bites down on the fresh tears that well-up in his eyes. “It hasn’t been easy, but we’ve made it.” He presses another kiss to Cale’s hair. “I don’t know when or how this is going to work out, but it will. I know it will.”

A few slow breaths fan out across his neck and chest, and Nate can feel Cale unwind slowly, tension draining away with every exhale. When he moves to pull away, Nate lets him, loosening his grip until Cale can look him in the eye.

“I love you,” he says, gaze intent and focused, and Nate’s heartbeat stutters.

“I love you, too.”

“This sucks,” Cale admits, “but it sucks less with you here.”

Nate hopes his smile doesn’t look as pained as it feels. “I’ll always be here for you,” he murmurs, and a breathtaking smile breaks over Cale’s face like the sun after too many days of rain.

“I know.”

\----

There are still tears on Nate’s cheeks when he wakes up.

Fucking hell.

He feels like he just finished a two-hour bag skate with no water and no breaks, feels like he just lost Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals in front of a home crowd.

His phone buzzes on his nightstand, and he slaps a hand to it, dragging it close to squint at the screen.

**Avs of Steel**

Babriel (9:12AM)  
[image]  
(laughing to tears emoji)  
Why the fuck is Josty wearing white shoes?  
They’re literally in the dirt.

Jompher Tompher (9:14AM)  
I tried to warn him.  
He wouldn’t listen.

Willy Wilson (9:15AM)  
I know he’s colorblind, but there’s no way it’s that bad.

Rants (9:16AM)  
He just wants picture.  
It’s obvious that Cale does all the work.

TBeauty (9:17AM)  
I don’t understand how Cale is younger than all of us  
But still manages to have his life together better than any of us

Babriel (9:18AM)  
Speak for yourself.

EJayJay (9:18AM)  
Yeah!

TBeauty (9:19AM)  
[image]  
Say that again.  
Slowly.

Kerfy (9:20AM)  
I’m sorry.  
Did you just have that photo ready to send?

Rants (9:20AM)  
What is this from???  
Why does Gabe have dildo on his head??

EJayJay (9:21AM)  
BACHELOR PARTY!  
(popping champagne emojis)

There are more texts pouring in, senseless strings of emojis and dumb gifs that Nate doesn’t really understand, but he doesn’t care because he’s too busy zooming in on the picture Gabe had sent.

Fuck, Cale looks good.

Nate should be embarrassed by how quickly his dick reacts to the broad shoulders and slim waist, the muscled forearms and long legs.

He isn’t.

Eyes fixed on the screen, he lets a hand drift down his chest to press at his rapidly hardening dick and hisses, already closer to the edge than he should be. He wraps a tight fist around himself and moves it in quick, graceless strokes. His orgasm, when it comes, barrels through him before he’s ready.

He’s dizzy in the aftermath, emotions still scattered and raw, and he thinks he should think about this. It’s one thing to get off thinking about the Cale from the travels; it’s another thing entirely to get off looking at his Cale—the Cale of this universe and time, he quickly amends.

His phone buzzes again, and he flaps a hand around until he finds it, quickly exiting the zoomed in photo and scrolling through the incoming messages. There’s a lot of chirping directed at Gabe (for the raucous bachelor party) and Josty (for the inappropriate choice of foot apparel). He stops when he sees one of the most recent texts.

**Avs of Steel**

Cale (9:31AM)  
I told him it was a dumb idea.  
He said he’s seven months older and therefore seven months smarter.  
(shrugging gif)

Babriel (9:32AM)  
(laughing to tears emoji)

EJayJay (9:32)  
Oh my god.  
Josty, no.

Willy Wilson (9:33AM)  
Cale went to college longer than you, Josty.  
I’m pretty sure that trumps being born a few months earlier.

Lil’ Tyson (9:34AM)  
(middle finger emojis)  
Fuck you all.

Kerfy (9:35AM)  
No thanks.

Big Z (9:36AM)  
Already have wife.  
Is much more pretty.

Lil’ Tyson (9:37AM)  
I’m pretty!

Willy Wilson (9:37AM)  
Oh my god.

Jompher Tompher (9:38AM)  
I’m sorry you’re stuck with him all week, Cale.  
Send an SOS if it starts to be too much.

Lil’ Tyson (9:39AM)  
You asshole.

Cale (9:40AM)  
Thanks.  
But as long as he has a phone and thousands of people to Insta live to, he’ll be fine.

Nate actually snorts at the words, feeling a warmth settle in his chest when he thinks about the face Cale probably made as he wrote the words.

Nate (9:41AM)  
Damn, he’s already figured out your weakness, Josty.  
You still feeling confident about those seven months smarter?

Nate is unreasonably pleased when he sees Cale like the text, and he has a brief moment of delusion when he considers pulling up Cale’s contact and sending him a personal text. It wouldn’t have to be anything special, just a question about rookie camp or his summer training. Something benign and innocuous. He even has the message pulled up, fingers poised to type, when he realizes that he can’t do this.

Cale is one of their most promising rookies, a teammate Nate will probably play with for years and years; he can’t just slide into his messages and try to make them something more. Especially when he doesn’t even know if this Cale shares the other’s affinity for dick.

With a frustrated groan, he closes the message and drags himself up.

How do you find out if a teammate likes dick without outright asking? he wonders as he goes through the day. Especially in a professional sport that isn’t the most accepting, even if they do Pride Nights and Hockey is for Everyone stuff? How do you then proceed to date said teammate in the off chance that he does in fact like dick? How do you date a guy in general?

Nate doesn’t know, and he can’t really imagine asking anyone else because then he’d have to explain, and no. Just no.

So he turns once more to the internet and spends most of the day scrolling through a million websites claiming they know the best tells for whether a guy is into you or not and debating the pros and cons of dating a teammate.

His head hurts by the time the sun dips toward the horizon, but he now has the vague outline of a hopefully fool-proof plan for approaching the Cale Situation when he gets back to Denver. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

\----

He starts his count back at zero that night and feels the anxiety build as the number rises each day, the certainty from before shrinking as the number grows.

\----

Nate stares at himself in the mirror and jumps, shocked.

The fuck?

Whipping his head around, he tries to get his bearings, tries to think past the initial wave of fear so he can figure out what’s going on.

This…this is another direct jump, he realizes as he takes in his unfamiliar surroundings. A second jump straight into the other world or time or universe with no slow wake-up and no warm husband in his bed.

The room he’s in is relatively small with a large mirror above what his designer would probably call a vanity but just looks like a fancy desk to him. A couple of chairs are scattered throughout the room, and a garment bang hangs on the back of the door.

Still confused, he turns back to the mirror and looks himself over, taking in the crisp, navy suit and pale blue tie. There’s a deep red flower of some kind pinned to his lapel, and he is concerned. Concerned.

He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know where Cale is—though he suspects he has to be around here somewhere because he’s been the only constant in these worlds…or this future.

He can think of only a couple reasons why he would be dressed like this, and there’s a rising sense of apprehension as he looks around the barren but classy room clearly intended for people to prepare for…something.

A knock interrupts his slowly growing panic, and Nate scrambles to open it, hoping to see a familiar face on the other side. His mom smiles back at him, his dad right behind her, and Nate returns the smile as best he can, staring at his parents.

Kathy is wearing a lacy, floor length dress with a white corsage around her wrist, and Graham has on a suit that has to be new because it doesn’t like his “old faithful”. There’s a boutonniere in the lapel that matches Nate’s.

Looking at them, Nate’s concern grows exponentially.

“Oh, honey, you look great,” Kathy enthuses, stepping forward to pull him into a hug. “So handsome in that suit.”

“Thanks,” Nate murmurs.

Kathy pulls back and grips his shoulders. “You’re all grown up,” she says, and he can see tears pooling in her eyes, filling them to overflowing. “About to get married and start your new life with Cale.”

The words launch Nate into a full-blown panic, though he tries to play it cool with his parents grinning at him like this is the best day ever.

Which, it is, or it should be. Weddings are meant to be the best day of a person’s life or at least one of the best days. They’re filled with family, cheesy toasts, well-rehearsed vows, and binding words from a priest or a bishop. They are special days, important days that should hopefully only come once in a lifetime.

And here Nate is, stealing this day away from the Nate of this universe, depriving him of one of his most-cherished memories, one of his most important days. He had wanted to travel again, had wanted to see Cale and remind himself what is possible, but this is not what he had in mind.

He feels a little sick.

“We’re so proud of you,” Kathy tells him, and Graham nods, looking a little misty-eyed himself. “And we’re so happy for you, for you and Cale. You two are such a good match, and we know you’re going to make each other so happy. You already do.”

Nate’s throat feels tight, and his stomach has become a pool of acid, burning nauseously. “Thanks,” he says and chokes on the words.

With a happy, tearful noise, Kathy throws her arms around him again and drags him into another hug, tighter than the last. “Oh sweetheart, I’m just so happy for you. So happy and so proud of the choices you’ve made. I know this is your special day, but I hope you realize how important this is for so many people, people you don’t even know.”

Nate doesn’t understand, but he nods anyways, tries to do this Nate justice.

“It was already a huge step to be out,” she tells him, voice thick with tears, “but this is so much bigger, so much more. You’re starting a new chapter and showing that your sexuality won’t stop you from winning, won’t stop you from finding love, won’t stop you from starting a family.” She leans back and cradles his face in her hands, thumbs stroking gently over his cheeks, wiping away the tears Nate hadn’t realized were falling. “This means so much for you two and our families, but it means so much to thousands of people you might never meet. You’re giving them an example, giving them hope.” Her mouth twists unhappily. “I know the last year hasn’t been easy, and I’m sure it won’t be any easier after this, but you’ve come through stronger for it, you and Cale together.”

Nate’s chest constricts, and he hopes, wishes, prays that the other Nate will get to live this day, too. Or has lived it already.

“You’re amazing, Nate. Amazing.”

She lets him go with a final peck to the cheek, and Graham steps forward to embrace him as well. “You’ve done good, son,” he says gruffly. “And I’m proud as hell of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Nate mumbles.

Graham tightens his arms. “Thank you for always doing what you know is best, no matter what those ignorant bastards might say, and thanks for letting us be a part of it.”

The words soothe Nate in a way he doesn’t expect, easing the anxiety that courses through him. “I’m glad to get to be a part of this, too,” he says quietly and doesn’t quite know who he’s talking to.

“You’re going to be a great husband,” Graham says, pulling away, “and a great dad when you two finally get around to popping out my grandbabies.”

Nate lets out a shocked laugh. “I don’t think either of us will be popping anything out.”

“Nothing?” Kathy asks doubtfully. “I’m not so sure about that. You may not have the right parts for babymaking, but that certainly hasn’t stopped you two from trying.”

Flushing hotly, Nate stares at the ground and hopes it’ll open up and swallow him whole.

“Give him a break, Kath,” Graham chides good-naturedly. “It’s his wedding day.”

Kathy mutters something about her couch needing a break, and Nate’s flush intensifies as he drowns in secondhand embarrassment.

“We should probably get out there,” he stammers with a vague gesture toward the door and the cool air waiting on the other side.

“Wouldn’t want to keep the groom waiting,” Kathy says, still smirking.

“I am the groom.” Nate pauses. “…one of the grooms.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep the other one waiting then,” Graham amends, and he herds them out the door and beyond, leading them outside to where the grassy lawn gives way to sand and blue water as far as the eye can see.

Dozens of chairs sit in even rows, facing a flower-covered trellis, and swaths of white, filmy cloth run from one chair to the next, cordoning off the aisle. Among the guests, Nate can see Tyson, Gabe, and EJ, thinks he can even see Sid and a couple of other Team Canada guys. Looking around, he’s almost certain his mom and Laura made most of the décor choices, unless Cale has some hidden penchant for color schemes he has yet to disclose.

“Looks like they’re ready,” Graham observes, and Nate turns to follow his gaze.

Just behind the guests, he can see Cale and his parents gathered in a small circle, and he feels his breath catch in his chest, stuttering out in uneven bursts.

Cale looks good. Really good.

Fuck, he’s lucky.

Or this Nate is lucky.

Maybe they’re both lucky.

Kathy leads them over to the Makars and instantly wraps Laura up in a hug, listening to her blubber about how beautiful everything is and blubbering right back. When they look to him, Gary shrugs fondly and gives Graham a hug as well.

Nate just stares at Cale and tries not to think about all the many, many things he’d like to do to him that go way beyond hugging.

When Laura and Kathy pull apart, both wiping at their eyes and grinning widely, Graham rests a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Guess, it’s time,” he says.

Nate swallows and nods.

“Cale, you’re a good kid,” Graham begins, turning towards him, and Cale’s face grows serious. “You work hard; you respect others; and you’re never afraid to tell Nate when he’s being a dumbass.” They all laugh softly. Nate thinks he should be offended, but all of his brain power is currently focused on not popping a truly massive boner in front of their parents at the sight of Cale in a well-cut suit.

“We probably don’t need to say it,” Kathy continues, “but take care of him and love him even when he’s being stubborn.”

Why are they all picking on him? It’s his wedding day.

“I will,” Cale says gravely, and Nate wants to swoon.

“Nate,” Laura says and reaches out to grasp his forearm, “we’re so happy you and Cale found each other. You’re a perfect match for him, and we’re so excited to welcome you into the family officially.”

Speechless, Nate nods.

“Keep treating him right,” Gary tells him with a firm pat to the shoulder.

Nate murmurs an affirmative, feeling an immense responsibility as the Makars place their trust him in.

“You ready?” Cale asks after a moment, and he holds out a hand, open and inviting.

“Absolutely,” Nate says. “Never been more ready in my life.”

\----

Well, fuck.

Nate stares at his ceiling and resists the urge to hurl a pillow at its serene, white surface.

Fucking bullshit time travel, universe-hopping hell ride.

First, he starts being thrown right into the travels. Now, he doesn’t even get to stay for very long.

Fuck.

FUCK!

It’s not fair. None of this is fair.

It’s like the universe is giving him a preview of what could be, then taking it back and leaving him alone and lonely. Worse still, the previews are getting shorter and shorter, and though Nate is grateful that the jumps haven’t stopped completely, the shortened time leaves him with an urgency and fear he doesn’t know what to do with.

Maybe they’ll get shorter and shorter until there’s nothing left. Maybe that was the last one.

Nate’s stomach churns at the thought.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, and he lunges across the bed to grab it, hoping to see something from the group text, something from Cale.

From Sidney Crocsby (9:05AM)  
Do you want to go fishing after the workout?  
I have a new rod I want to try out.

Nate sighs, disappointed.

To Sidney Crocsby (9:06AM)  
Yeah  
Sounds good

Sidney Crocsby (9:07AM)  
(thumbs up emoji)  
Okay, door’s unlocked.

Maybe he could just send Cale a quick ‘what’s up?’ text. That would be chill.

No. No.

Creeps on Tinder send ‘what’s up?’ texts; Nate won’t be that guy. He has a plan, a good plan…a decent plan, and he’s going to stick to it. So no creepy, random texts.

\----

He starts counting again, even though he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get back to zero.

He tries not to think about that too much.

\----

“Papa,” a quiet voice calls, and Nate immediately looks up from his computer to see a girl standing in the doorway. She’s taller than last time, but Nate still recognizes his daughter, still knows he’s looking at his Abby.

“Yeah?” he asks and minimizes whatever he’d been working on to focus on her, unwilling to let a single second pass by where he isn’t one hundred percent focused on his family—this Nate’s family. This could be his last jump; this could be the last time he gets to see Abby and Noah for a long time…if ever. He’s not going to waste it working on emails or schedules or something else equally unimportant.

She looks uncertain, shifting from foot to foot and wringing her hand as she hovers in the doorway.

“Abbs, what is it?”

In a few quick strides, she crosses the room, and he gets a brief view of her flushed face and teary eyes before she’s in his arms, head tucked beneath his chin and arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says and runs a hand through her hair, worry rushing through him. “It’s okay. Whatever happened, it’s okay.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Everything’s okay, honey.”

Tears wet the front of his shirt, leaving a damp patch just over his heart, and he wishes he knew what had happened so he could fix it immediately.

“I’m here. You’re okay. It’s alright.”

Sniffling, she pulls back to look at him, and his heart cracks at the sight of her tear-streaked face, runny nose, and wobbly lower lip. He swipes a thumb over her cheek, but fresh tears fall almost immediately, so he leans over, grabs a tissue, and offers it to her silently. With a trembling hand, she takes it and wipes messily at her face.

As he waits, he strokes a hand over her back and whispers soft reassurances and promises that everything will be okay, speaking lowly and calmly like he does when his dogs are frightened by a summer storm.

Finally, she tosses the tissue in the garbage and looks at him, features too serious for someone who can’t be more than ten. “Jacob Bridgestone called you and Dad faggots,” she says, almost spitting the word out like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and Nate’s eyes go wide in shock.

He’s not surprised to hear that there are still assholes in the world who resort to name calling, but he is surprised that someone his daughter’s age is tossing that word around.

“What?”

“He called you faggots, and I didn’t know what that meant, but when I got home from school yesterday, I looked it up—”

“Oh sweetheart.”

“And I can’t believe he would say that! That’s so rude and mean and…and discrimination. He doesn’t even know you, doesn’t know anything about you!”

Nate sighs heavily. “People don’t have to know someone to judge them.”

“I know that! I learned that! Because he’d said that everyone knows you two are faggots, and when I was on the computer, I found tons of mean posts about you and Dad, calling you all kinds of bad things, and I know that people on the internet can be mean, but they’re total assholes!”

Nate winces but isn’t surprised his daughter’s picked up some language. She is the child of two professional hockey players.

“And it wasn’t even just random trolls on the internet!” she continues furiously, hands gesticulating wildly. “There were articles about you guys! Lots of them! Real articles, from real news places that talked about how shameful it was for there to be two gay players in the NHL and for you guys to get married. They were saying awful things about you, about your performance, about how you shouldn’t be allowed to play, about how kids shouldn’t look up to you because you set a bad example for them.

“They even said that you shouldn’t be allowed to be parents because you don’t have the ‘morals’ to raise kids. How stupid is that? How dumb? I just—I can’t believe they’d say that! I can’t believe people are that stupid and…and ignorant and dumber than rocks. You and Dad are great parents! You’re the best parents! They can’t say that kind of stuff! They don’t know anything!”

With a sad smile, Nate grabs one of her waving hands and holds it close, squeezing her fingers gently. “You’re right,” he says. “They don’t know anything.”

“So they should just shut up! Jacob Bridgestone should shut up!”

“Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. People are allowed to say what they want, whether it’s true or not.”

She scowls. “That’s stupid. If it’s not true, they shouldn’t say it.”

“No, they shouldn’t,” Nate agrees. “But you can’t stop them from talking. People will say what they want no matter how much it hurts others.”

Frowning, Abby eyes him. “Did they hurt you?” she asks quietly.

Nate pauses, ponders the question and constructs a response that he guesses would be true if he had been on the receiving end of all the vitriol internet bigots can produce. “Yes, sometimes. It hurts to hear people say nasty, untrue things about you. It hurts to hear someone say I wouldn’t make a good papa or that I shouldn’t get to play the sport I love so much because they don’t agree with my life choices. It hurts to think there are people who hate me because of who I choose to love.”

Abby’s lip curls into a sad pout, and she lifts a hand to his cheek, thin fingers resting on the scruff he needs to shave.

“But what they say doesn’t matter,” Nate goes on, “and it hasn’t stopped me from doing anything. I won the Stanley Cup even though they said I couldn’t or shouldn’t. I started a family and now have two beautiful, almost-perfect kids that mean the world to me and their daddy even though lots of people didn’t think we should be allowed to adopt.” He pokes at her stomach until she giggles. “And I have the best, most handsome husband in the whole entire world who gives the awesomest hugs and kisses—”

“Ewwwww!”

“and who hasn’t left me even after almost twenty years and two crazy kids.”

Abby scoffs. “Dad would never leave you!”

“No,” another voice breaks in, “I wouldn’t,” and Nate turns to see Cale in the doorway, one hand wrapped in Noah’s small fingers and a fond smile curling his lips.

Nate can feel the terribly soppy grin that breaks over his own face at the sight. “Good to know,” he says and ignores the ache in his chest that reminds him that this is not his reality, not his life, not his husband and kids.

“Yeah, we would never leave!” Noah chimes in enthusiastically, and Nate stands from his chair and makes his way over to them.

“Never?” he asks, ruffling Noah’s hair and laughing when he bats at his hand ineffectually.

“Never! Never ever ever ever ever,” Noah insists.

“That’s an awful lot of evers.”

“I can do more,” Noah informs him and looks ready to make good on that claim, when Nate holds a finger over his mouth.

“I believe you,” he tells him and wraps an arm around Cale’s waist to tug him forward gently.

“Do you believe me?” Cale asks, and if Noah wasn’t practically between them and if Abby wasn’t fast approaching from the right, he would be tempted to shut the door and lock it so he could have his way with his husband because fuck, he really is hot.

Even though this Cale is probably fifteen years older than him—the real him—he can still feel himself reacting to the crinkle-eyed smile and suggestive tone.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “I think I might need some proof.”

Cale hums. “What kind of proof?”

Lightning quick, Nate presses their lips together. “Something like that.”

Cale returns the kiss, just as fast. “Like that?”

“Yeah,” Nate says, and he lifts a hand to cradle Cale’s jaw. “This might be even better though,” he tells him and tilts his head just so, bringing their lips together in a long, slow slide that leaves him breathless.

“That was better,” Cale murmurs against his lips. “Much better.”

Nate drops his hand low on Cale’s back, his pinkie and ring finger landing on the swell of his ass. “And there’s plenty more where that came from,” he says, lips grazing Cale’s and sending shivers down Nate’s spine.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nate breathes out and lets his grip tighten.

“Stop being gross!” Abby suddenly pipes up, pushing her way between them with sharp elbows and more force than Nate expected from someone so lean.

“Gross? We’re not being gross,” Cale tells her. “We’re being romantic.”

Abby scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “No, you’re being gross.”

“How about we just cover your eyes?” Nate suggests, raising a hand to do just that, while Noah, smart little guy that he is, covers his own eyes with a bright grin. “That way you won’t have to see anything.”

He kisses Cale again, tongue sneaking out to trace around his lips and slide against his for one, glorious moment.

“I can still hear you!” Abby shouts, outraged, and Nate groans.

“Plug your ears then,” Cale tells her, and he loops an arm around Nate’s neck, dragging him closer for a filthy kiss that leaves him weak in the knees.

“So gross,” Abby complains, and Nate presses a final, promising kiss to his husband’s lips before pulling away and letting Abby go.

“Gross,” Noah echoes, but he’s still smiling, so Nate doesn’t take it personally.

“Are you just jealous of Papa getting all the kisses?” Cale asks them, reaching down to snatch Noah up. “Do you want kisses, too?”

Noah shouts delightedly, and Cale showers him in kisses, on his head and his cheeks, his flailing hands and his easily-exposed stomach, drawing loud laughter from their son.

Nate aches as he watches them.

\----

A loud beeping draws him from sleep, and he smacks at his phone in frustration, grumbling unhappily.

Goddamn it. Fuck his alarm. Fuck training. Fuck these stupid travels that show him everything he never knew he wanted or needed and then take it all away again and again.

With a groan, he flops onto his back and glares at the ceiling, wondering if he can hit snooze and force himself back into sleep.

He tries.

He is unsuccessful.

The alarm sounds again, and he crawls out of bed, heads to the rink to meet with Sid and Andy, and throws himself into a workout, decidedly not thinking about how easy it was to workout with Cale. He’s been training with Sid for years, _years_ ; it should be just as easy, but it’s not. They’re comfortable around each other, but it’s not the same.

In the travels, he always feels aware of where Cale is in the room, always gravitates toward and around him like a planet to its star, moving in and out of his space with practiced ease. There’s a level of familiarity between them that goes far beyond training partners or longtime friends, an intimacy that Nate misses as Andy runs them through a series of drills.

\----

When he falls asleep that night, he swears he won’t start counting again.

When he wakes the next morning, a disappointed ‘one’ rings in his ears.

\----

The smell of freshly-ground spices and sizzling meat permeates the air, wafting out of the open kitchen where Nate can hear the sound of knives chopping, dishes being washed, and staff hurrying to and fro. He looks up from his menu and does a double take when he sees Cale.

Holy shit, he’s young again.

Well, technically not again.

He’s young this time? Is that the best way to say it?

Nate’s not really sure, but he knows he’s staring because this looks like his Cale. Not _his_ Cale, obviously. This is definitely another jump, and Cale’s not really his in his own universe or time anyways.

Not yet, a small, hopeful part of him whispers, and he moves his count back to zero.

“What are you going to get?” Cale asks, looking up at Nate and smiling when he catches him staring.

Nate glances down at the menu again and is relieved to see familiar dishes from a restaurant Tyson has dragged him to too many time. “Fajitas are always a good choice,” he says, and Cale nods. “What about you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really eat a lot of Mexican food.”

“What? Why?” Nate asks, immediately thinking of all the other restaurants in Denver that he needs to take Cale to.

Flushing lightly, Cale shrugs. “A lot of the dishes have cilantro in them, and I don’t like really the taste. It’s kind of weird and soapy.” His flush deepens when he finishes, and Nate feels like an absolute idiot for not asking about his food preferences before taking him out to dinner.

Who takes a guy who doesn’t like cilantro out for Mexican food? Nate, that’s who.

Fucking stupid.

“We can go eat somewhere else,” he tells him, hoping Cale will agree and that this flub won’t ruin what Nate thinks is probably a date, maybe one of their first with how young Cale looks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask what kind of food you liked. I should have.”

“No, it’s alright. There’re still plenty of dishes that don’t have cilantro. It’s not a big deal.”

“Are you sure?” Nate really doesn’t want to mess this up, doesn’t want Cale to decide to end things here because Nate isn’t conscientious enough to ask him what food he does and does not like.

“Yeah,” Cale reassures him, and the toe of his shoe nudges against Nate’s ankle, there and gone again in a second. “I mean, fajitas don’t have any as far as I know. It’s just a topping that people can put on.”

Relief courses through Nate. “Okay, we’ll just tell them to hold the pico di gallo, and we’ll be set.”

“You can still get it,” Cale says quickly. “I won’t eat it, but that shouldn’t stop you from eating it.”

Nate is shaking his head before Cale’s even finished. “But if I eat it, then that’s what my breath’ll smell like, and I don’t want that because—” he immediately cuts himself off because they are in public and this is probably one of their first dates and Nate really doesn’t need to tell Cale how badly he wants to kiss him over two Coronas and a large bowl of chips and salsa.

“Oh,” Cale breathes out, understanding and interest lighting up his eyes.

Apparently, Nate isn’t the only one who wants that to happen, so he smirks and sneaks one foot out to tap against Cale’s beneath the table. “Yeah, so if that’s okay with you, I think I’m going to pass on the cilantro and save room for dessert.”

Cheeks flushing brightly, Cale gapes at him. “That is the worst line I’ve ever heard,” he sputters.

“But it totally worked, didn’t it?”

Cale purses his lips and stays silent.

That’s okay; Nate already knows the answer.

“Have you boys figured out what you’ll be eating tonight?” the server asks, returning to their table with a notepad and pen in hand.

Nate waits until Cale nods before placing a double order of fajitas, chicken and steak, hold the pico di gallo, and she gathers their menus and makes her way towards the kitchen.

“You seem pretty confident about that whole no cilantro thing,” Cale tells him when she’s far enough away, voice low and far too tempting in the middle of a restaurant filled with laughing families and older couples. “This is the first date.”

Nate scoffs and presses his foot more insistently against Cale’s. “Don’t really think those rules apply in this situation.”

“No?”

“Pretty sure you can’t be stingy about first base when you’ve already slid home,” Nate says, and the words shock him.

He can’t believe he said that.

He can’t believe they’ve already done that.

Holy shit.

He lets his eyes track the blush that creeps down Cale’s neck and wonders how far down it goes, how far down this Nate already knows it goes.

“Yeah, well, we can pretend,” Cale mutters, and he grabs his drink to take a long sip, throat working in a stunningly distracting way.

“Are you into that?” Nate asks lowly, and Cale nearly spits his beer out, cheeks puffing comically as he stares at Nate in horror.

He manages to swallow, coughing a couple times, and glares at Nate. “We’re not talking about this right now.”

Nate likes the qualification he adds on the end. “But we’ll talk about it later, yeah?”

Cale rolls his eyes, longsuffering. “Yeah, obviously,” he mumbles, and Nate grins broadly.

“Cool, because I—”

\----

He’s not even surprised when he wakes up midsentence, mouth partway open to continue speaking.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Fuck!”

That was ten minutes, fifteen maybe. Far too short for his liking.

As he gets ready to head to the rink, he wonders if that was the last, if his count will only ever go up from here.

Something in him aches at the thought.

\----

He doesn’t jump again that week or the next, and when he arrives in Vail for Andy’s camp, it’s with the painful certainty that he won’t jump again.

Two weeks and everyone’ll be back in Denver, he reminds himself. Two weeks and he’ll see Cale for the first time since this all began. Two weeks and he’ll be able to put his plan into action.

\----

Nate wakes up slowly, hovering in the strange limbo between sleep and wakefulness before finally accepting that he won’t actually be able to fall back asleep and opening his eyes to the soft, morning light.

Denver, he thinks, looking at the familiar, frothy curtains.

Denver, he thinks, louder and brighter, rolling over until he encounters a warm, bare body.

Fuck, it wasn’t the last one. It wasn’t the last one!

Taking slow, full inhales, he lays an arm across Cale’s back and scoots closer, deliberately noting every hair on his head, every smooth line of his body, every beat of his heart that Nate can feel if he’s quiet and still enough. He can see the band of gold wrapped around his ring finger, back in its rightful place, and he presses a gentle kiss to Cale’s shoulder, resting his lips against the warm skin, committing the feel to memory.

He leaves another just beside the first, then another a bit further away, slowly making his way across one shoulder blade, each kiss feather light and terribly wonderful.

Cale shifts, muscles flexing across his back before relaxing again.

Nate rests his hand more firmly in the dip at the small of his back and carefully sucks at the skin beneath Cale’s jaw, tongue and teeth working the area over like he’s done this a hundred times before. Which, this Nate probably has. He’s probably done this a thousand times. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more.

Groaning, Cale rolls onto his side and blinks his eyes open, squinting against the light to see Nate.

“Morning,” Nate greets, quickly scooting closer and pushing a leg between Cale’s, relishing the way Cale moves to accommodate him without a thought.

Lifting a lazy arm to tuck it around Nate, Cale grins. “And a good one, too.”

“Any morning with you is a good morning,” Nate tells him, painfully honest, and Cale laughs softly, voice still rough with sleep. “And any morning with you in an empty house is a great morning,” he continues and presses his thigh teasingly against Cale until he can feel him begin to stir and swell.

Cale hums and tilts his head forward for a slow, deep kiss, tongue working Nate’s over in languid strokes. When he pulls away, he lets out a contented noise. “Are you just trying to prove to Abby that we’re not too old for morning sex?”

“No,” Nate says, and he reaches over Cale, fumbling with the drawer of the nightstand and withdrawing a bottle of lube. “I’m trying to take advantage of the fact that Abby—and Noah—are not here and will therefore not come bursting into our room with questions about where they left their lucky socks or with permission slips that need to be signed ASAP.”

Cale pulls the lube from Nate’s hand with a filthy grin. “You know, you used to talk about us being parents like it was something sexy, a turn-on.” He nudges at Nate’s shoulders until he rolls onto his back, and Cale follows, settling between Nate’s legs and making him very, very aware of the lack of clothing between them.

Fuck, this is better than he imagined, better than he ever thought it could be.

Suddenly desperate for more contact, for more of everything, he lets his legs sprawl, wraps an arm around Cale’s shoulder, and pulls him closer. “Parenthood is not sexy. But watching you be a great dad to our kids is probably the hottest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”

Cale rolls his hips down against Nate, grinding them together until Nate moans. “Hotter than one of the Cup wins?”

“Yeah,” Nate sighs, excitement running through him at the thought of multiple Cup wins.

“Hotter than our wedding night?”

Mild irritation overpowers the excitement at the thought of his missed wedding night. “Yes.”

“Hotter than the Hawaii trip?”

“Which one?”

Cale smirks, trailing a hand down Nate’s leg to hook it around his waist. “You know exactly which one.”

Nate doesn’t actually.

But he does.

He can feel a body beneath his, can hear the steady crash of waves against the sand and the delicious noises Cale makes, can taste the salt on the air and on Cale’s slick skin.

He knows exactly which trip Cale is talking about.

Fuck.

“The Hawaii trip was hot, really hot,” he agrees and rocks up into Cale. “We should definitely go back there for an anniversary, leave the kids with our parents, and spend all day, every day naked.”

Cale hums in agreement and starts a slow rhythm, pressing down against Nate before pulling away.

“But seeing you with our kids is still hotter. It’s like a daily reminder that I’m the luckiest guy in the world because I get to see you every day and keep you forever.”

“Forever,” Cale repeats with a soft grin, and he dips down to kiss Nate, hand snaking out to grab the lube he had dropped earlier.

\----

The word echoes in Nate’s mind as he opens his eyes.

“Shit,” he mutters, glaring at the hotel nightstand with more venom than necessary. He can’t help it; he’s pissed.

He’d already resigned himself to not having another dream, had already accepted that they were over, but he was wrong. He was wrong, and he can still feel Cale’s body over his, his hands on Nate’s hips, and their mouths pressed tight.

Needing relief, he rocks up and meets nothing but empty space and starchy sheets. “Fuck.” His dick is painfully hard, straining against his shorts and demanding attention, and he shoves a hand beneath the waistband and curls his fingers around the hot flesh.

It’s dry and rough, but he doesn’t care. He needs this to feel real, needs the reminder that this is his life, his reality.

He chokes out a gasp when he comes, Cale’s voice in his ear, his breath ghosting over Nate’s skin.

\----

When he goes to bed that night, he starts a new count, a countdown.

Three days until he’s back in Denver, back home.

\----

 **Make Cale Fall in Love with Me and My Dick** (MCFLM2D [pronounced McFlim Sqaured D] for short)

Step 1: Get Help

He’s sitting on Tyson’s couch, listening to him talk about his summer adventures, when Nate finally works up the courage to implement step one.

“Tys,” he says, interrupting a ridiculous story involving two Four Lokos and a tricycle, “I think I might be gay.”

That…was not how he had planned to start. There was a whole speech, a whole story he had prepared to explain how he had reached that conclusion, but no, his brain went ahead and just spat out the first thing that came to mind.

Tyson blinks at him, face blank, and Nate’s chest feels too tight.

What the hell is wrong with him? Why would he just blurt that out? This is only step one. Motherfucking step one! If he can’t even do this right, how the fucking hell is he going to put the rest of the plan into action? Good god, he’s an idiot. Jesus Christ.

“Oh cool,” Tyson finally says, “since when?”

“Since when?” Nate parrots back breathily.

“Yeah,” Tyson replies. “Wait,” he holds up a hand, stricken, “that might have been the wrong thing to say. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know there’s probably not like a specific day or month you can assign to something like that, and I didn’t mean to suggest that there is. It’s just that you’ve never mentioned this before, and I totally don’t have a problem with it, but I’m wondering if maybe you thought that I would have a problem with it, which is why you haven’t told me before.

“And that’s fine if you didn’t want to!” Tyson quickly says, wide-eyed and looking more freaked out than Nate feels. “No one should be forced to come out when they don’t want to, but I really hope you didn’t think that I would have a problem with it because I definitely don’t. I really, really don’t. Please don’t ever think I do because I don’t. I just—”

“Tyson,” Nate says firmly. “I never thought you would have a problem with it.”

Nate can practically feel the relief that rolls through him. “No? Good. Because I don’t. I love you, man. You’re my best friend, and I’m glad you told me, glad you trusted me.”

“It’s good to finally tell someone,” Nate admits. This is not at all how he intended to approach the topic, but it’s worked out, all things considered.

“Finally?” Tyson repeats. “Wait, does no one else know? Am I the first person you’ve told?” A smile breaks across his face, bright and enthused. “Dude, that’s like such a huge honor! Oh my god, like not even your parents know?”

Nate…should probably talk to them about that. He’s not worried about their reactions, knows they love him as he is; he just…didn’t factor them into the MCFLM2D.

“Uh, no, they don’t.”

“They’d be cool with it, right?” Tyson asks, worry tinging his tone. “They seem cool, but if they aren’t, we could totally adopt you into the Barrie family. I always wanted a brother, and I’m sure my parents wouldn’t mind having two successful NHLers in the family. Dude, you could come to all the family holidays! Christmas, Canada Day, my birthday—”

Nate snorts. “First of all, none of us ever have time to go home for Christmas. Second, your birthday is not a holiday.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It should be.”

Nate rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree. He knows when to pick his battles. “It doesn’t even matter though because my parents will be chill about this. I just…haven’t gotten around to telling them.”

Tyson looks like he wants to press the issue of his birthday’s claim to holidayhood (holidayship? holidaydom?), but he lets it go. “How have you not told your parents? Not that I’m not flattered to be the first person to know, but I think they’re a little bit more important than me in your life—as much as it pains me to admit that.”

Embarrassed at the unintended oversight, Nate shrugs. “I was kind of busy.”

“Busy?” A worrisome gleam lights Tyson’s eyes. “Like _busy_ busy?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “Did you get a boyfriend over the summer? Is that why you’re finally telling me about this? Oh my god, when can I meet him? Is he nice? Did you meet at home?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Nate says, bitter enough that Tyson arches a brow inquisitively. “I didn’t meet anyone while I was home, and I don’t have anyone to introduce you to.”

Tyson pouts.

“But,” Nate continues, steeling his courage, “there is someone that I’m kind of interested in.”

“Kind of?” Tyson says skeptically, and Nate flushes.

“More than kind of.”

A wide grin stretches across Tyson’s face, practically manic. “Who is it? Do I know him? Where’s he from? What’s he do? Older, younger? Taller, shorter? Is he hot?”

Nate thinks of the picture Gabe had sent months ago, the picture Nate had saved to his phone because he has no shame and jerked off to it multiple times. “Really hot.”

“Like out of your league hot?”

“No,” Nate objects, offended. Some best friend he has. “He’s definitely in my league.” He pauses. “Like literally in my league…”

Tyson squints at him, mouthing the words to himself. “Literally? Literally in your league? Like your—like the—” His eyes get big and round. “He plays hockey? He’s in the NHL?”

Holding his breath, Nate nods and hopes that Tyson won’t be too upset. Nate had talked himself in circles about the whole teammate thing, coming up with a million reasons why it could work and another million why it couldn’t. Eventually, he’d determined that if Chu and Oulette could get married and have a fucking cute baby together, Nate and Cale could, too.

“Is it Drouin? I know you guys are close.”

Nate can’t help but grimace. “Gross, no. That’d be like dating my brother. That’d be like dating you.”

Tyson gasps, affronted. “Excuse me, I would make a fucking great gay boyfriend.”

“But I wouldn’t want to date you.”

Sniffing imperiously, Tyson turns his nose up. “Fine, so I guess that means you aren’t into nice, cuddly, cookies-making hotties, who have cute dogs and a retirement plan.”

“I have my own retirement plan.”

Tyson doesn’t deign to reply.

“Oh my god,” Nate groans, slumping back into the couch, “you’re not even into guys, and you have a girlfriend. It shouldn’t even matter that I don’t want to date you.”

“It’s the principle of it.”

Tipping his head back, Nate sighs. “Fine, Tys. If you were gay, I would maybe consider dating you.”

Tyson harrumphs. “I don’t think you’re giving me the credit I deserve, but I’ll let it go for now because there are more important things to discuss like who in the league you would actually consider dating—that you are considering dating.

“Do I know him? Is he a forward? D-man? Not a goalie, right?” Tyson pauses, looking thoughtful. “Is he on the team?”

Nate doesn’t know what face he makes, but it must be pretty damning because Tyson’s mouth forms a shocked, little o.

“He’s on the team?” he shrieks. “Dude, who? Oh my god, is it Mikko? Are you just trying to take that line chemistry further? Is it Willy? Everyone loves him. Grubi? Even I can admit he’s one hot dude.”

Nate shakes his head.

“JT? Did his playoffs beard just really do it for you?” His face drops in horror. “It’s not little me, is it? Because he’s a hot mess on a good day, man, and you do not need that. You need someone more mature than that, more mature than you.”

“Hey!”

“Most of the older guys are married or dating, so who is it?”

“He’s not older,” Nate blurts, still a smidge offended, and Tyson’s eyes get impossibly wider.

“You’re crushing on one of the rookies?” he asks, voice strained and frantic. “Dude, who? Why? They’re all babies who still need to be reminded that chips are not real food. Who the hell would—” The words abruptly die off, and Tyson’s face goes slack. “Oh,” he murmurs. “ _Oh_.”

Nate doesn’t understand what that means.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“ _Dude._ ”

“What?” Nate demands again, annoyed.

“It’s Cale, isn’t it?” Tyson asks, though he seems certain of the answer already. “You’re crushing hard on our baby-faced, wonder boy rookie. Oh my god, of course you are. You didn’t shut up about his goal for weeks. You were always talking about his puckhandling and speed, going on and on about how excited you were to play with him.”

“I did not.”

Tyson shoots him a baleful look. “Yes, you did. And like a good friend, I let you because I thought you were just jazzed about the playoffs, but oh my god, you were actually falling for the rookie. Dude, why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Because there was nothing to say.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s true.”

Brow furrowed, Tyson stares at him intently, eyes searching. “For real?” Nate nods. “Then when did this start?”

“Over the summer. I can’t really explain it,” mostly because Tyson would probably think he had gone crazy, “and I guess now that you mention it, I might have kind of been into him during playoffs, but I didn’t realize that I was into _him_ and not just his hockey, so don’t say you knew it.”

Tyson’s lips quirk slightly. “Okay, then how’d you figure it out? I know you didn’t see him this summer, so that can’t be it. And unless there is more information you’re withholding from me, you didn’t talk to him outside of the team chat.”

“No, we didn’t talk. That didn’t seem like he best way to try and start something, especially because I don’t even know if he’s gay or bi or anything else that would mean he’s into dudes.”

Tyson nods in understanding. “Yeah, smart move. But now you’re back here, and so is he, so we can start figuring out if he wants the d and if he wants your d.”

“Tys,” Nate groans.

“Just saying it like it is.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

Nate huffs, “You’re alright,” and Tyson scoffs.

“I’m so much better than alright because I’m going to do you a solid and host a party at my house on Friday to welcome everyone back. Cale will come, and I can be your wingman, and when you get married someday, I call dibs on being best man so I can give a speech about how I was the first to know about your massive crush on him and that you wouldn’t have gotten together without my help.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself there,” Nate says. Granted, he’s thought about a lot more than marriage with Cale, but that’s only because he lived it, so that doesn’t count. “We need to figure out if he would go on a date with me before we can talk about weddings and best man speeches.”

Tyson makes an understanding noise and nods. “Right, one step at a time. So, I’ll host a party and invite all the guys. Then you can talk to Cale and start laying down the groundwork for your happily ever after.”

“Tys,” Nate chides.

“Fine. I’ll host the party, and you can talk to Cale. Period.”

\----

 **Make Cale Fall in Love with Me and My Dick** (MCFLM2D [pronounced McFlim Sqaured D] for short)

Step 1: Get Help **DONE**

Step 2: Talk to Cale (But Act Normal)

“They’re coming, right?” Nate hisses at Tyson, feeling more on edge with every minute that passes and every teammate that shows up who isn’t Cale.

Tyson rolls his eyes. “Yes, dude, calm down. You saw Matt’s answer in the group text. They’re coming.”

“What if something came up?”

“What if they’re just running a little late?” Tyson counters, and Nate frowns. “You need to chill, seriously. This is embarrassing.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god, I’m going inside to grab more beers. You, stay here and chill the fuck out.”

“But what if—”

“Nope,” Tyson interrupts, hauling himself out of his seat. He claps a hand to Nate’s shoulder and turns toward Gabe and EJ. “Gabe, Nate has asked for some beard-maintaining tips because he wants his to be as luscious as yours when we make it to playoffs again.” With a dickish smile, he walks away, and Gabe gives Nate a pitying look that he really doesn’t feel he deserves.

“Nate,” Gabe begins gravely, “the most important thing to remember when it comes to beards is that we don’t compare them. They come in different shapes and sizes, and each is beautiful for its uniqueness.”

Slumping back in his seat, Nate takes a long swallow from his beer and settles in for a lengthy Gabriel Landeskog™ lecture about self-acceptance and the power of confidence.

Gabe’s just moved onto a new metaphor that has Nate squinting in confusion, when he sees Tyson come back out with no beer and two guests.

Holy motherfucker.

Distracted by Cale in a plain t-shirt and shorts (that’s not even a sexy outfit; what the hell is wrong with him?), Nate completely misses the mouth of his bottle when he goes for a sip and ends up spilling beer down the front of his shirt.

“Are you still talking about beards?” he demands, slamming the bottle back on the table and hoping that Gabe interprets it as annoyance with him rather than embarrassment for Nate’s own inability to be cool. “Because I feel like this is just a really thinly-veiled dick metaphor,” he says and lifts an eyebrow at Gabe, sprawling back in his chair.

“This is about beards,” Gabe confirms, but his stupidly large forehead scrunches up in concern as he eyes Nate. “But if you need the ‘Dick Comparing is Bad’ talk, I am absolutely ready to give it.”

Nate groans. “I don’t need any talks, Gabe.”

The wrinkles in Gabe’s forehead deepen, and Nate wants to bash his head on the table in frustration, but Cale is here now, looking a little tired but still gorgeous, and Nate does not need to make a bad impression. “Are you sure?” Gabe asks gently. “It’s already a problem in male culture, but it can be even worse among athletes since body shape and size are so valued.”

“I’m absolutely positive. My dick is fine; it’s great actually. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Hey,” Tyson calls, plopping into his chair and tossing an arm around Nate’s shoulders. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” Nate says as Gabe informs Tyson that Nate has fallen victim to the comparison curse and must now be reassured that his dick is beautiful no matter how big or small it is. When Tyson turns to him, sad and concerned, Nate growls in annoyance.

That apparently confirms his need for the talk, and Gabe and Tyson launch into a speech about the dangers of toxic masculinity and the value of body (and dick) positivity. Nate zones out pretty quickly, eyes glazing over after Tyson mentions penis positivity for the third time.

God, why is he friends with these guys? Why did he sit with them instead of Z or Grubi or the roommates? Literally, anyone else would have been better.

He gets his answer when his eyes catch on Cale, seated beside Matt and laughing at something Willy has said, cheeks flushed and eyes crinkling.

Fuck, he’s hot. So hot, like burning.

Jesus, he looks solid and heavy from a summer of training, looks like he could push back in bed or pin Nate down and take whatever he wants. Shit. Shit, that would be so fucking hot. God.

As he stares, Cale’s head turns, and the world seems to slow down. His lips part just slightly, looking red and wet and entirely too desirable in a backyard full of their teammates.

Nate tries not to blink for fear of missing something.

Cale reaches a hand out and grabs his drink, lips curling around the rim of the cup and throat working as he swallows. Nate’s dick takes immediate interest, and his brain is suddenly filled with far too many images of Cale’s mouth and throat involved in very different, very obscene activities.

Cale sets his cup down, and Nate thinks he should maybe tone the staring down, but he hasn’t seen Cale in person in weeks, hasn’t seen this Cale, the real Cale, in months. A little staring isn’t a big deal, and it’s not like Cale’s looking away either.

This is mutual staring; Nate can only take half the blame.

Colin asks Cale a question, and he turns away quickly, breaking the tension that Nate had felt building between them and in him.

To his left, Tysons whistles lowly. “Dude,” he says, breathless and amazed. “Dude, what was that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Scoffing, he leans in. “You can’t just jump straight to eye-fucking, man. There needs to be some lead-up.”

“That was not eye-fucking!” Nate hisses in dismay.

Tyson arches a single, stupidly-perfect brow. “Yes, it was, and it wasn’t even the sweet romcom type that is sort of gross but also cute. That was like full Beyoncé ‘Partition’, popped buttons and ripped blouse eye-fucking.”

“It was not.”

“It was, and it was gross.”

Nate scowls.

“But I can’t complain too much because now we know that Cale’s into you, so you don’t have to worry about hitting on a straight dude.”

“That was like two seconds of eye contact. You can’t be sure.”

Tyson gives him a dubious look and rests a hand on his knee. “You looked like you were about to attack him with your mouth, and he looked ready to let you. There’s no way the kid isn’t gay or at least gay for you.”

Nate thinks about it. The staring had clearly caught Cale off guard, but he hadn’t seemed upset or annoyed by it. Nate might even say he looked a little nervous, but the good kind of nervous, the nervous that comes before a big game. Okay, he thinks, okay, and breathes out a relieved sigh.

“So what do I do now?”

“Right now?” Tyson asks. “Nothing. You’re my bestest bro, but after seeing that, I don’t trust you to not have sex in one of my guestrooms.”

“Hey!”

“Ripped blouse, Nate. Ripped t-shirt in this case, I guess. So you’re going to be chill for the rest of the night, and you can talk to him at practice or in the locker room on Monday, somewhere with no easily accessible beds.”

“You don’t need a bed to have sex,” Nate points out, and Tyson shoots him a dismayed look.

“Okay, who’s getting ahead of themselves now, huh? Work on getting a date before you work on getting in his pants.”

\----

 **Make Cale Fall in Love with Me and My Dick** (MCFLM2D [pronounced McFlim Sqaured D] for short)

Step 1: Get Help **DONE**

~~Step 2: Talk to Cale (But Act Normal)~~

Step 2: TALK to Cale. Real words must be exchanged before sexing.

Nate thinks Tyson’s revision of Step 2 is a bit unnecessary, but he understands the intent behind it. He’s not looking for a hook-up; he’s not looking for someone to warm his bed for a while. He’s playing for keeps here and, therefore, needs to establish a solid friendship with Cale before living out all the fantasies he’s jerked off to in the past couple months.

When he turns up to camp on Monday, he’s ready for Step 2, armed with a whole slew of get-to-know-you questions to keep conversation rolling.

The only problem is conversation never really begins. In the weight room, Cale usually pairs up with Matt or one of the other d-men, and on the ice, he seems to always be talking with one of the coaches about a drill or working on a skill with one of the guys. He’s never available, never alone, and by the end of camp, Nate is grinding his teeth at the sight of Sammy and Cale discussing defensive strategy.

“Punching your own teammate is inadvisable,” Tyson says casually as he drops into the locker beside Nate’s.

“I’m not going to punch him,” Nate grinds out, and he picks at his sock tape in frustration.

“Tell that to your face.”

“Shut up.” Tyson flinches back minutely, shocked at the fierce tone, and Nate feels shame well up in him almost immediately. “Sorry, sorry. That was rude. I didn’t mean it.”

“You sure?” Tyson asks, eyeing him concernedly. “Because you sounded like you meant it, and looking at you, I realize I probably shouldn’t take it personally. You kind of look like shit, man.”

Grimacing, Nate unwinds the tape from around his socks, balls it up, and tosses it toward the trash can. He misses.

“Are you coming down with something?”

“No,” Nate mutters, and he stands to peel his pants and shin pads off. “Just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Why not?”

Nate shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m kind of nervous and excited for the season. This feels like it could be our year.” Tyson doesn’t look convinced. “And I mean,” Nate continues reluctantly, “I’m kind of stressed about the whole” he waves an arm in the general direction of Cale, who looks far too good in his spandex, “thing.”

That is an understatement, a gross understatement. Nate has been a wreck over this, vacillating between elation each time he catches sight of Cale’s smile and frustration when he can’t talk to him because someone gets in the way. He’s fed up and pissed off and would just like five minutes alone with Cale, but no one seems to recognize that or care, so Nate goes home and jerks off to the image of Cale’s hands wrapped around his stick or Cale’s sweat dripping down his neck. And it’s fucking great, but then he remembers that he could be doing this _with_ Cale, and that would be so much better, but that can’t happen if he doesn’t talk to him.

“No progress?” Tyson asks, even though he has to know the answer already.

“None,” Nate says gloomily. “People are always around him. Always. I don’t think I could buy two minutes alone with him.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so this is a setback, but it’s not something that can’t be overcome. We just need to revise the plan and try again.”

\----

 **Make Cale Fall in Love with Me and My Dick** (MCFLM2D [pronounced McFlim Sqaured D] for short)

Step 1: Get Help **DONE**

~~Step 2: Talk to Cale (But Act Normal)~~

~~Step 2: TALK to Cale. Real words must be exchanged before sexing.~~

Step 2: Just Fucking Talk to Cale

After practice, Tyson bumps into his side, looking eager. “Dude, guess what.”

“What?” Nate asks unenthusiastically, too tired to listen to Tyson’s most recent optimistic take on the Cale Situation.

“He’s staying out here,” Tyson says. “I just heard him tell Matty that he’s going to stick around for an hour or so.”

The words send a jolt through Nate, and he immediately whips around to see Cale skating toward the opposite wall, skillfully guiding a puck in front of him. “Can you—”

“Of course,” Tyson interrupts and takes off towards the guys who tend to stay later, wrapping an arm around Mikko and another around Sammy to direct them towards the tunnel, talking loudly about this new steakhouse they have to try.

With a slow exhale, Nate collects one of the pucks and follows Cale, sending it down the ice before he reaches the goal. “I was going to do some stickhandling stuff,” he says as he comes to a stop beside Cale, nerves churning his stomach. “If you’re staying too, we could practice together.”

Cale hesitates, and Nate thinks the circles under his eyes are darker than they were a week ago, standing out starkly against his flushed cheeks. Nate remembers being a rookie, remembers feeling tired all the time, so he brushes off the concern before it can take root.

“Sure,” Cale says, and Nate grins, relief pulsing through him.

“Cool, there’s this drill Andy had me run over the summer that would be good to do with some defense.”

Cale nods, and Nate hopes he’s not imagining the way his eyes linger on Nate’s just a beat longer than is appropriate for bros.

He gathers one of the pucks and explains the drill to Cale, trying not to get distracted by the way his face goes serious and focused and how much it reminds him of that moment before their wedding when Cale promised Nate’s parents he would take care of him. When he’s finished, Cale nods once and waits for Nate to get in position.

As they go through the drill and another after, Nate can’t help but be amazed by the way Cale moves, quick and agile, turning on a dime and forcing Nate into tough spots where he loses the puck more than he’d like.

“Water break?” he asks Cale, panting after another long stretch up and down the ice, and Cale nods silently. His heavy breaths and flushed cheeks are at once satisfying and tempting.

They stand by the bench in relative silence, catching their breaths and looking over the chippy ice. After a couple sips, Nate hands the bottle to him and tilts his head back, eyes catching on the banners hanging in the rafters.

“We’ll have ours up their soon,” he says without thinking, and Cale looks over at him, brows furrowed in confusion before he follows Nate’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Soon.”

Nate doesn’t like the miserable tilt to his mouth or the deep pain in his eyes that gives them a terrible, watery appearance. “We will,” he says forcefully because he wants to reach over and touch Cale, wants to shake him until he believes him, but he can’t. That’s not his place. Not yet, maybe not ever. “We’ll win together, you and me,” and it comes out like an oath, a vow that Nate will never break. “The team,” he tacks on.

The words seem to bring Cale little comfort, and Nate shuffles minutely closer. “Yeah,” Cale says softly, like the words hurt.

This is not what Nate intended when he first spoke up. He had hoped to start an easy conversation about the season and their chances at the Cup, something safe that he could use as a springboard into the questions he actually wanted to ask.

“I have to go,” Cale suddenly blurts, and he presses the water bottle back into Nate’s hand. “I promised Matt I’d help with something at the house.” Wondering if he said too much, Nate takes a careful step back. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I…sorry,” Cale stammers and waves clumsily. “See you tomorrow. Bye, sorry.”

Skates scraping loudly on the ice, Cale disappears into the tunnel without looking back.

Shit.

“Shit!” Nate shouts and hurls the bottle at the bench, watching it compress against the wood before falling to the ground with a telling crack. “Shit.”

There are tears pricking at his eyes, hot and painful, and he scrubs a gloved hand over them roughly.

He fucked up. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why, but he did.

With a frustrated growl, he pushes away from the boards, gathers one of the pucks, and wrists it towards the net. It smashes into the boards and ricochets away.

“Fuck!”

\----

 **Make Cale Fall in Love with Me and My Dick** (MCFLM2D [pronounced McFlim Sqaured D] for short)

Step 1: Get Help **DONE**

~~Step 2: Talk to Cale (But Act Normal)~~

~~Step 2: TALK to Cale. Real words must be exchanged before sexing.~~

~~Step 2: Just Fucking Talk to Cale~~

Step 2: Apologize to Cale for Being an Intense Weirdo

Nate rehearses on the way to practice the next day, repeating the words over and over until he thinks he could recite them in his sleep. His fingers drum a nervous rhythm on the wheel as he pulls into the player’s lot, and he just barely stops himself from leaping out of the car when he sees Matt and Cale making their way inside.

He needs to stay calm, needs to chill, needs to not say something dumb and scare Cale away again.

Calmly, he parks his car and heads inside.

In the locker room, he greets Cale with an easy smile and a casual nod and gives himself a mental fist bump when Cale returns them.

But nothing else happens.

Each time Nate thinks he’s got an open lane to sidle up to Cale and start a conversation about one of the drills that he could transition into an apology, someone else gets there first or Cale skates away to practice stickhandling.

Okay, that’s okay.

Nate doesn’t have to do it today. That’s fine. It’s good.

He’s just going to lose sleep over it. No big deal.

\----

They have a family skate before the season starts, and everyone brings their girlfriend or wife and kids. Nate tries not to notice that he’s one of the few guys without a ‘better half’. He tries even harder not to notice that Cale doesn’t have a ‘better half’.

Instead, he spends most of his time ignoring EJ’s dumb chirps about his singleness and flushing every time Tyson catches him staring at Cale. It’s not his fault though; Cale is speeding around the ice with Matt’s little boy in his arms, giggling loudly and demanding that he go faster and faster. It’s at once the best and worst thing he’s ever seen.

“Dude,” Tyson hisses the fourth time Nate nearly runs into Gabe. “Just go talk to him. This is pathetic.”

“I can’t just go talk to him! I’ll say something stupid, and then he’ll hate me even more than he already does!”

Rolling his eyes, Tyson scoffs and hooks and arm through Nate’s elbows. “He doesn’t hate you.” Nate had told him about the post-practice catastrophe, and Tyson had decided Cale was probably just nervous around him. “You probably intimidate him; you’re the older, more experienced teammate.”

“I don’t have the experience you’re talking about,” Nate points out.

“Yes, but he doesn’t know that.”

“Wouldn’t it be good for him to? That way he knows we’re on the same level, or he…” the words catch in Nate’s throat as a terrible thought occurs to him, “or he could have more experience than me.” The idea leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I don’t think he does.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I don’t think he does. If he did, he probably wouldn’t be so awkward with you.”

Nate disagrees.

“Okay,” Tyson says, fingers tightening around Nate’s arm, “you’re being ridiculous. Come with me.” He takes off down the ice and keeps a firm grip on Nate’s arm. “Cale! Cale, my leafy dude!”

“Shut up, Tys,” Nate hisses. “Don’t do this.”

Tyson plows to a stop, spraying Cale and the kids with a shower of snow. “What’s up?” he shouts and bends to greet the kids.

Cale turns with a bright smile, and Nate thinks it falter when he sees him, slipping briefly before returning. He swallows the lump in his throat and offers a small wave. Cale nods at him. The dark circles under his eyes seem a little worse than before.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Nate should say something else; he really should.

“You ready for the season?” he asks and immediately regrets every choice he’s made in his life. What the fuck kind of question is that? Is he some beat reporter looking for any easy quote? What is wrong with him?

“Yeah,” Cale responds with a hesitant smile. “I know training’s important, but I’m always counting down the days until the season starts.”

Nate nods. “Me too. You all settled in with the Calverts?” Good god, what is he doing? Is he his parent? Is he someone in management? Why would he ask that?

“Yeah, it’s not like there was too much to move in. A couple of suitcases and some gear.”

“Light packer, eh?” Holy fuck, can he start over? If ever there was a rewind button, now would be a great time to have it.

Cale shrugs, and it draws Nate’s eyes to the broad line of his shoulders and the fair skin of his neck. Should he be thinking about getting his hands on those shoulders? No. Should he be imaging—reminding himself—what that skin tastes like? No. Is he doing both of those things anyways? Hell yes.

“After a few years in Juniors and two at UMass, I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out what the essentials are. I’m sure I’ll bring more stuff when I have my own place, but I don’t need much at Matt and Courtney’s.”

The words hurt more than they should, and Nate bites down on every instinct that reacts negatively to the thought of Cale getting his own place. “Makes sense,” he says, voice tight. “It’s good to have someplace like that in the beginning, way better than starting on your own.”

“Definitely.”

“And I’m sure they’re happy to have you. You’re great with the kids,” he tells Cale, painfully earnest and far too honest, “so I bet they take advantage of that for some breaks.” Holy fuck, did he just say that? Dear god, he needs to shut up.

Something flashes in Cale’s eyes, something shadowed and unhappy, and he shrugs modestly. “They’re fun to hang out with, so it’s no problem for me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I should make sure they don’t take Tyson down though,” Cale says with a vague gesture to where the boys have latched onto Tyson’s legs and seem determined to wrestle him to the ice. “I…it was nice talking to you, Nate.”

With a final brief smile, he skates over to Tyson and grabs the boys, picking them up easily and pushing down the ice towards their parents. Nate stares after them and feels his heart thud in his chest.

“Well, that wasn’t terrible, was it?” Tyson asks, popping back up at his side.

“He said it was nice to talk to me,” Nate sighs.

“That’s not so bad.”

“Not so—? Tys, that’s what you tell people when you don’t want to talk to them ever again. That’s what you tell the person on the plane who didn’t shut up for four hours straight. You don’t say that because you actually enjoyed the talk; you say that because you’re glad it’s over.”

Frowning, Tyson wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Stop being dramatic. That’s Gabe’s job.”

“I’m not being dramatic; I’m being honest.”

“Whatever. Talk to him again tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

\----

Nate does talk to him. If a lengthy dissection of their power play and a very brief discussion about Cale’s family counts as talking. Nate isn’t going to complain though. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. They talk a few more times over the next week, mostly about their set plays or rushes with the occasional personal question slipped in.

All in all, Nate’s feeling like the MCFLM2D is back on track, so he starts lingering in Cale’s space a little longer and pressing closer during cellies. It’s euphoric: to be close again, to receive his bright smiles and sincere praise, to see the fatigue overcome by excitement when they do something particularly incredible together.

\----

They’re moving through the neutral zone with speed, and Nate can see a lane opening, can see a hole that he can slide into for the perfect one-timer. He shifts slightly and veers to the right, already shouting at Cale to give him the puck.

From there it’s easy, just a quick one-two pass-shoot, and the puck is in the back of the net.

Beaming, he turns toward Cale, and warmth bursts in his chest when he sees the wide grin and raised fist. They meet somewhere in the middle, crashing together joyously.

“That was insane!” Nate shouts giddily, breathless with the possibilities for the future, for the team, for them.

Cale’s smile vanishes, disappears between one breath and the next, and he flinches back, out of the circle of Nate’s arms, looking pale and upset. Without a word, he spins and heads for the bench, head down.

Every stride is like a punch to the gut.

Cale doesn’t talk to him for the rest of practice, and he doesn’t talk to him at the game that night. He doesn’t talk to him the next day either or the day after that.

They’ll talk hockey, sure. They spend hours watching film and breaking down every move in every shift, but as soon as the conversation moves away from hockey, Cale excuses himself or changes the subject pointblank.

Nate starts a new count.

When he reaches eight, he heads to the store, buys an obscene amount of alcohol, and shows up at Tyson’s door.

“Nate! What are you—oh.” Concern mars Tyson’s features as he takes in Nate’s haggard face and the bags of booze. “Oh Nate,” he sighs and steps aside.

They don’t have a game tomorrow, and practice is optional, so Nate doesn’t hold back. He takes more shots than advisable and accepts the sugary drinks Tyson presses into his hand without any complaint.

“Dude,” Tyson mumbles after god only knows how long. Nate grunts to let him know he’s listening. “Dude, I don’t get why you’re so hung up on this kid. You never even went on a date.” Nate glowers. “There are so many other fish in the sea, man. Don’t get stuck on this one.”

“But I want this one,” Nate slurs moodily. “I want him. Don’t want the other fish; don’t care about the other fish. They’re not even…they’re not even in the same league—the same lake!” He snorts. “Why would I want any other fish?”

“You should maybe change lakes then,” Tyson says in the pseudo-wise tone he gets after too many daiquiris.

“I don’t want to. I like this lake. I like him.” Nate pauses, thoughts sluggish from the alcohol and the late hour. “I love him,” he whispers thickly.

Tyson whips his head around in shock and immediately slaps a hand to the back of the couch when he starts to wobble. “Dude,” he slurs. “Dude, what? You can’t be serious. You can’t. You met him in April. You’ve never even been on a date!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nate drawls, head lolling back as he stares at the ceiling. “I definitely love him.”

“But why?” Tyson demands, and Nate frowns at him. “Not that he isn’t great, but you can think someone’s great and not be in love with them.”

“But he is great,” Nate grumbles, “and I am in love with him.”

“Why?”

Nate squints at him confusedly, “Because he’s the best,” and Tyson lifts a single brow in question, making a go-on kind of gesture with his hand.

Nate sighs. “He’s the nicest person ever. He’s nice to all the guys and the crazy fans and the PR people who always nag him to do postgame interviews even though he hates talking about himself because he’s so fucking humble. And his smile is perfect. Perfect. It’s huge and happy and real, and it makes his eyes scrunch up all small. Which is how you know if someone’s really smiling or not,” Nate informs him. “It’s not the mouth that matters, but the eyes. Real smiles are in the eyes.” Tyson’s lips quirk. “And he is so good at hockey, so good. Fast and smooth with the softest hands. It’s insane what he can do, especially as a rookie.

“Plus, he’s great with kids,” Nate continues and feels his chest constrict when he thinks of Cale with the Calvert kids, Cale with their kids. “ _Great_. He never talks down to them and always knows what to say after someone gets hurt. Kids love him; they flock to him. Also, my parents think he’s the best thing ever,” Nate adds, grumpy because it’s the truth. In this universe, in the other universes (or times, a secret part of him whispers, though that voice has gotten quieter and quieter with each passing day). “My dad probably talked about his goal more than I did, and my mom said his mom is the sweetest person she’s ever met, so any child of hers has to be good, too.”

He falls silent then and frowns at the ceiling, feeling like he’s said too much, like he’s pulled himself open and laid his heart and soul out for Tyson to inspect.

“Geez,” Tyson murmurs, stunned. “You _love him_ love him. Like, forever love him.”

Nate sucks in a wet breath. “Forever,” he whispers brokenly, and Tyson makes a sad, dismayed sound beside him.

“I think it’s time for bed,” he declares and plucks Nate’s glass out of his hand. “You need to sleep, so you don’t have to think about this anymore.”

Chuckling darkly, Nate lets Tyson haul him off the couch and guide him toward one of the guest bedrooms. “Sleep won’t change anything. I dream about him.” He pauses, scowling. “I dreamed about him.”

“I’m sorry, Nate.”

\----

He wakes up to the smell of bacon and, for a brief moment, thinks he’s traveled again because this isn’t his room. This isn’t his house. But as the fog of sleep fades, he remembers coming to Tyson’s last night, remembers crying on the couch about his stupid, unrequited feelings for Cale. With a heavy sigh, he drags himself out of bed and trudges to the kitchen.

Tyson doesn’t look much better than he feels, but he already has a decent stack of pancakes and a plate of bacon ready, so Nate decides he’s the bestest best friend in the entire world.

“Dude, you’re the greatest,” he says, climbing onto one of the barstools and leaning his forehead against the cool marble countertops.

“Thought you might need it.”

Nate groans in thanks and shoves a whole piece of bacon in his mouth, relishing the greasy flavor and crunchy texture. “The best,” he repeats.

“I try.”

As Tyson finishes cooking, it’s silent save for the sound of sizzling bacon and Nate’s knife and fork when he decides to eat the pancakes like a civilized human. Each bite of fluffy goodness and sip of bitter coffee has him more awake and more horrified as he remembers everything he said last night.

God, he wishes he could turn back time and stop himself from opening his mouth, wishes he could pull all those words back in and keep them close, keep them private.

“Alright, man,” Tyson says when he slides into the seat beside Nate, plate in hand. “I was thinking after the game tomorrow we could go out with some of the boys, get some drinks, and find you some company for—”

“No,” Nate says before he can continue. “No.”

“But that’s our tried and true method!” Tyson protests through a mouthful of syrup-doused pancakes. “It works like a charm.”

“Not this time.”

Tyson gives him an inquisitive look, cheeks puffing comically.

Nate feels so tired, like a favorite shirt that’s been washed too many times, barely held together by a few strands of thread. “Please, just don’t. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to hook-up. I just…I want…” he sighs. “Nevermind.”

Frowning, Tyson nods.

\----

Nate throws the MCFLM2D away and focuses on his game. He steers clear of Cale whenever he has the choice, talking about plays and rushes during practice or in the locker room but leaving as soon as Bedsy calls them over or the whistle blows for the next drill.

He’s gotten good at choosing the seats at dinner or on the plane that keep the most distance between them, so he’s surprised to find Cale across from him at dinner a week later. He thinks Tyson might have been involved somehow, caught up in a new half-brained plan to make them friends, even if they won’t ever be more.

Nate appreciates the gesture but hates the execution. He doesn’t think he can handle sitting through an entire dinner without asking Cale if he’s feeling okay (the circles beneath his eyes seem darker than before) or staring at him like a love-struck idiot.

“Holy shit,” EJ shouts beside him, looking at his plate like one would a holy relic, “this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Nate, you have to try this,” he says and shoves his fork forward, nearly catching Nate in the cheek. “Tyson, Tys, dude, this is amazing. It’s like I’m in Mexico again.”

Nate eyes the fork suspiciously.

“I told you it would be good,” Tyson pipes up, triumphant and smug from EJ’s other side.

EJ pushes the fork forward until Nate has no choice but to open his mouth and accept the food. It’s cool and fresh with a hint of spice that bursts across Nate’s tongue.

“What do you think?” EJ asks eagerly.

Unable to say anything around the food, Nate offers a thumbs up, and EJ’s grin widens.

“Sammy, Cale,” he declares, looking across the table, “you have to try this. It’s amazing.”

“I’m not eating after Nate,” Sammy snips, and Nate responds with an eye roll as he chews, picking up hints of lime and garlic, some cilantro.

Oh. Cale won’t like that.

EJ huffs. “Give me your fork then,” he says and snatches the utensil out of Sammy’s hand before he can refuse, loading it up with the salsa before returning it to Sammy.

Tentatively, Sammy puts the fork in his mouth and chews, face thoughtful. When he nods his approval, Cale holds his fork out to EJ.

Nate watches EJ scoop an eager helping and hand the fork back over. Cale looks unsure but game as he opens his mouth.

“You’re not going to like it,” Nate blurts before he can stop himself and immediately flushes.

Fork halfway to his mouth, Cale stares at him, shocked expression probably a good mirror of Nate’s own face. “What?” he asks.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have said anything. He should have kept his mouth shut and let Cale deal with whatever his taste buds don’t like about cilantro. He should have stayed quiet because there’s no easy explanation for why he knows this about Cale, no quick lie he can tell.

“It’s delicious, Nate,” EJ says, affronted. “Why would he not like it?”

Eyes fixed on a drop of condensation sliding down his glass, Nate shrugs and mumbles something incomprehensible.

“What was that?” EJ demands, stabbing one long finger into Nate’s side. “What did you say, Nathan?” His finger is pressing just above the tender edge of a healing bruise.

“I said he won’t like it because it has cilantro,” Nate snaps and slaps at EJ’s hand, pissed-off and embarrassed.

Tyson’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong with cilantro?” he asks as Cale leans across the table to drop the food back on EJ’s plate with a frown.

There’s no reasonable answer, so Nate shrugs and mumbles again. Then he turns to Mikko and asks him about the new golf clubs he’d seen in a couple of his Insta posts.

He manages to stretch their conversation until dinner ends and they have to head back to the hotel before curfew.

\----

He spends the next couple of days freaking out about the Cilantro Incident and comes up with a million shitty lies for why he would know something like that about Cale, ranging from somewhat believable (“I convinced HR to let me look at his ‘get to know you’ questionnaire.”) to ridiculous (“His mom knows I’m the most responsible person on the team, so she gave me a list of his likes and dislikes at the beginning of the season.”)

He doesn’t end up needing them because everyone’s forgotten about it by the next morning and Cale seems intent on his complete avoidance of Nate in anything non-hockey related.

And that hurts.

Somehow, it still hurts.

\----

On the plane to Vancouver a couple weeks later, he watches JT take a shot, cheeks redder than his hair, and wonders what he’s done in bed that’s too dirty to share with a bunch of hockey players.

“You’re so boring,” Tyson complains, but JT seems pretty damn set on silence because he just shrugs. “Fine, Nate,” Tyson says and turns to look at him, grinning maniacally. Nate braces himself and prays that Tyson has the tact and compassion to not bring up anything remotely Cale-related. “What…” Tyson begins, dragging it out to torture him, “would you name your kids? First girl, first boy.”

Nate blinks at him surprise.

“What!” JT hollers. “You ask me about sex stuff, and Nate just has to pick baby names? How is that fair?”

“Nate doesn’t have a sex life to talk about,” Tyson replies frankly, and Nate can feel a hot blush spread over his face. He gives Tyson a dirty look and shoves at him in retribution.

“Not fair,” JT moans, but he settles back down when Little Tyson lays a calming hand on his arm.

“Let’s hear them, Nate,” Tyson goads, poking at him. “If you say Sidney, I’m going to mock you for the rest of your life.”

“Fuck off! I would never name one of my kids Sidney,” he says with a grimace.

He would never subject his children to that, and anyways, they already have names, so it’s a moot point.

“You sure?” Tyson asks, wiggling his brows.

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

Nate rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m fucking positive,” he scowls. “If I had girl, I’d name her Abigail and call her Abby for short. If I had a boy, I’d name him Noah.”

There are nods and rumbles from around the group, and Nate feels irrationally pleased to know that they approve of the names. Across the aisle, Cale stands up abruptly and bumps into Sammy, stuttering out an apology as he tries to exit.

“Where are you going?” Kerf asks with a concerned frown.

“I think I’m done for the night,” Cale replies, and Nate doesn’t like the exhaustion that seems to hang over him. His face is pale and gaunt in a way it shouldn’t be this early in the season, and the skin beneath his eyes is bruised a deep, awful purple.

“You haven’t even gone yet!” Little Tyson protests. “You can’t leave.”

Looking unhappy and desperate to leave, Cale shrugs and makes his way up the aisle. Nate shifts in his seat, and a hand immediately clamps down on his arm. Furious, he turns to Tyson.

“Let me go,” he hisses.

“No.”

Nate glares at him. “I just need to go ask Gabe about something.”

“Don’t lie,” Tyson chides. “I’m not stupid, but apparently you are if you think you’re about to go and talk to him right now.”

“Something’s up,” Nate insists in a fierce whisper. “Something’s been up for a while, and I don’t think he’s okay.”

Tyson sighs heavily. “Bud, I think you might be projecting a little right now. Don’t get your stuff mixed up in this.”

Frustration flickers hot in Nate’s belly. “I’m not projecting, and I’m not getting my stuff mixed up in this,” he says flatly. “This isn’t about that. This is about him and the fact that he looks like he needs an extra week of sleep. I don’t know if he’s sick or just not sleeping well, but he’s not okay. He’s not, and I hate it. It’s only gotten worse since the season started, and something needs to change. Something has to change.”

Tyson looks taken aback by the ferocity behind the words. “Okay,” he breathes out, nodding. “Okay.”

Nate tries to shake his hand off, but he holds on.

“I still don’t think you should go talk to him right now,” he says carefully. “You don’t have the best track record with him, and if something really is wrong, I don’t think you being nosy would do any good.”

Nate tsks. “It’s not being nosy.” Not when it’s Cale, not when it’s his husband.

“Dude,” Tyson sighs, “you’re one of his teammates, and though I know you don’t like hearing it, you’re not even one of the teammates he’s close to.”

Nate bites down on his automatic response and glares at some point beyond Tyson’s head.

“I understand that you’re worried about him, but I wouldn’t recommend confronting him about it. He’s a pretty close-mouthed guy, super private, so unless you want to destroy whatever little bit of friendship you two have, don’t ask him about it.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Nate mutters through clenched teeth, feeling horribly powerless. “If I can’t talk to him, what can I do? I can’t just sit around and watch him get worse.”

Tyson nods, thinking. “You could maybe ask Matt about it. They live together, so outside of the team doctors or trainers, he probably knows most about anything that might be going on.”

That’s not a half-bad idea.

“Don’t do it now though,” Tyson says knowingly. “Ask him at breakfast or something, when you’re not in an enclosed space surrounded by teammates.”

Nate nods in begrudging agreement.

“You could also organize some type of chill get-together for the team,” Tyson continues. “It’s been a rough couple weeks, and everyone could use some relaxation.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Nate admits reluctantly, and Tyson grins.

“I usually am.”

\----

At breakfast the next morning, he scans the crowd for Matt and spots him with a couple of the older guys.

“Hey,” he greets as he makes his way to their table, weaving determinedly through the other diners, and they respond in kind. “Matt, do you have a minute?”

Eyebrows lifting, Matt looks up at him and then down at his half-eaten breakfast. “Sure,” he says, standing, and Nate turns to find a quiet area for them to talk. There’s a hallway branching off the dining area that looks like it probably leads to the kitchen, so chances of being interrupted or overheard would be pretty low.

When they’re mostly obscured by a fake plant and the arch of the hallway’s entry, Matt looks at him expectantly. “Everything alright, Nate?”

“Yeah,” he begins. “Well no,” he amends. “I’m fine. I’m good.”

Matt looks more concerned with every word.

“Is Cale okay?” Nate blurts because there’s probably no good way to lead into this, and he really just needs to know what’s going on.

Matt blinks at him. “What?”

“Cale,” Nate repeats, slower. “Is he okay? I feel like every time I see him, he looks worse than before. Is he sick? Does he have some personal stuff going on? Is he stressed?”

Sighing, Matt rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I’ve tried to talk to him about it a couple of times, but he’s pretty tight-lipped. All I know is that he’s not sleeping much. I can hear him up late most nights, but I don’t know what’s keeping him awake.” Matt shrugs helplessly. “I don’t think it’s a family thing. I’ve talked to his mom and dad, and they said everything’s fine at home. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Nate’s heart seizes, “so I don’t think it’s relationship drama. He might be stressed about his play, but that’s pretty ridiculous in my opinion. Kid’s tearing it up.”

Nate bites back a groan of frustration. “Has he gone to see anyone about the sleep problems? One of the team doctor’s or a specialist?”

Matt shakes his head, frowning. “No. He seems determined to push through this on his own.”

“Idiot,” Nate mutters exasperatedly. “What do you think it would take to get him to go see someone? I don’t—” he takes a slow breath. “I don’t want him to get hurt or something because he’s too tired to function.”

“You and me both,” Matt says. “I can try and talk to him again, maybe push a little bit more to figure out what’s going on. And if he doesn’t want to talk to me about it, then I could give his parents a call and have them talk to him. They’d probably be more successful than me.”

Nate doesn’t particularly like those solutions, wishes there was something he could do, but that’s not his place. Not in this universe, not in this time. And he hates it, hates how useless he feels, hates how there’s nothing he can do. Not for now at least.

“Talk to him as soon as you can,” Nate says, “and don’t be afraid to push. Maybe he won’t tell you what’s going on, but that’s fine. Just get him to see a doctor. Please.” He knows he sounds desperate, pleading, but he doesn’t care.

Looking serious, Matt nods. “I can do that. I’ll talk to him as soon as we get back to Denver.”

“Thank you,” Nate tells him, earnest and sincere.

\----

“Dude, you need to chill,” Tyson murmurs, eyes locked on the screen as the roommates race through one of the Mario Kart courses, shouting insults and elbowing one another to get the upper hand.

“I am chill,” Nate tells him in a decidedly unchill voice.

Tyson gives him a dubious look. “If this is you being chill, I’m not sure I want to see what you look like freaking out.”

“Shut up.”

He lays a hand on Nate’s arm; he probably means to be comforting, but it feels condescending. “I thought you were working on getting over him. We made a plan, man. Follow the plan.”

“You made a plan,” Nate corrects.

“A plan I thought you were on board with!” Tyson exclaims. When a couple guys turn to shoot them curious looks, he ducks his head and focuses on scooping as much dip onto one chip as possible. “A plan you should be on board with,” he hisses quietly. “This is ridiculous, Nate. You need to get over him.”

“I don’t want to,” Nate hisses back. “I already told you that. I don’t want to get over him. I don’t want to go out with other people. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

“But he doesn’t want to be with you!” Nate’s jaw snaps shut, and Tyson winces. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean for that to come out like that. I just…I don’t want you to get hurt any more than you already have, especially over someone who won’t even give you the time of day. You’re better than that. You deserve better than that.”

Nate opens his mouth, then closes it. “Look,” he sighs, “I don’t want to talk about this right now. Tonight is supposed to be about team-bonding and relaxing. That’s it.”

Tyson huffs. “Fine. I’ll drop it for tonight, but I’m not letting this go. I’m not going to watch you fall apart over some punk rookie who doesn’t realize what a catch you are.”

Nate snorts. “Thanks.” The front door slides open, and a few voices drift in. “I’m going to go play host. You, stay out of the onion dip. You’re not allowed to eat it all yourself.”

Pouting, Tyson nudges the bowl away and reluctantly grabs a couple of the carrot sticks Gabe had brought on a veggie platter. Nate grins at him before heading out of the kitchen and towards the door.

His heart thuds when he sees Matt and Cale pulling their shoes off. “Hey,” he calls, lifting a hand in greeting.

Cale mutters something to Matt and turns to stride down one of the hallways, face drawn and pale.

Nate lets his hand drop, stomach churning painfully. “Is he okay?”

Matt blows out a heavy breath. “No, but I got him to agree to meet with the team doctors. He says he’s just having trouble sleeping, but I feel like there’s more to it. He just won’t talk about it.” His lips twist in a frown. “Hopefully, he’ll get this figured out before it affects his game too much.”

Nate really couldn’t care less about hockey right now. Even if this does eventually affect Cale’s play, he won’t care. Hockey’s not the important thing here.

“I should probably go check on him though,” Matt says. “He looked a little sick on the drive over.”

“I can do it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Matt nods and claps him on the shoulder. “I’m glad to know you’re looking out for him.”

“Of course,” Nate says and heads for the bathroom.

He can hear retching on the other side. Violent, choking sounds that make him want to push the door open and curl around Cale, rub a hand over his back and promise that everything’s going to be okay.

But he can’t.

Tyson’s right. Nate’s just one of his teammates, and not even one he hangs out with. He’s not Cale’s husband. He’s not his boyfriend. He’s not even his friend, if he’s truly honest with himself.

Before his fingers can wrap around the doorknob, he clenches his hand into a fist and leans forward to rest his head against the wood, heart aching with every awful noise that seeps through the cracks.

The toilet flushes, and the faucet runs for a good minute or two.

When it’s quiet on the other side, Nate lifts a hand and raps his knuckles against the wood lightly. “Cale? Are you okay?”

A quiet huff is the only response, and he wants to push the door open, needs to see for himself that Cale’s okay.

“I’m fine,” Cale finally says, voice raw. “I’m fine.”

Nate doesn’t believe that for a second. Biting at his lip, he debates opening the door. Cale could be pissed at him, could tell him to fuck off and mind his own business, and Nate would accept that, reluctantly. But he could also let Nate in and finally tell him what the hell has been going on, finally let Nate help him.

Before he comes to a decision, the door swings open, and Cale peers out at him, eyes bloodshot and lips a wet red that would distract Nate if he didn’t know the cause.

“I just need to get some sleep,” Cale murmurs, barely making eye contact.

Nate can’t help but reach a hand out, “I don’t think that—” and Cale flinches away. The words die in Nate’s throat, and his heart splinters then shatters in his chest. His hand hangs in the air between them, useless, as hot tears sting his eyes.

“I should probably go home,” Cale says, mouth twisted unhappily. “I think I might have caught a bug or something.”

Even though it hurts more than an open ice check or a Game 7 loss, Nate nods. He purses his lips, lets his hand fall back to his side, and steps back.

“Sorry,” Cale whispers. “I—sorry.”

Nate wants to ask him what he’s sorry for. He wants to ask what’s going on and what he can do to make it better. If Cale needs space, he can give it. If Cale needs help, Nate’s first in line.

But Cale looks like a strong gust of wind could blow him over, so Nate bites his lip and stays silent.

Eyes downcast, Cale steps passed him and heads for the den, Nate trailing after him helplessly. When they arrive, Cale makes his way to Matt immediately, and they have a brief, whispered conversation. Nate returns to his place beside Tyson and shakes his head before he can even open his mouth.

With an apology and a promise to see everyone at practice tomorrow, Cale excuses himself, and Nate watches him go, jaw tight and fists clenched.

“Dude,” Tyson murmurs once the games and loud laughter have picked back up, “what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“No way, that wasn’t—”

“Nothing, Tys,” Nate growls, and Tyson reels back in shock. Nate sighs. “Sorry, just—just drop it, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Tyson says, nodding slowly. “Do you want to go next?” he asks and gestures at the packed couch.

“Sure.”

He doesn’t enjoy it, but it’s a good distraction. Surrounded by chirping teammates and too much pizza, he can—not forget maybe—but think about something else for a couple of hours.

When the light from outside begins to fade, the guys make noise about heading home to partners or kids or getting some sleep before morning skate. Nate waves off any offers to stay and help clean, practically pushing Tyson and Gabe out the door. He’s not stupid. He knows that they’re doing; he doesn’t want their pity or their distractions. He just wants to be alone.

“Nate, come on,” Tyson grumbles.

“No.”

“We don’t want you to clean everything up by yourself.”

“No.”

“But we—”

“Tyson!” Nate says sharply. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need that right now. Please, just—just go home. I can clean up myself.”

Tyson frowns. “Fine, but we’re going to lunch tomorrow.”

“Sure, whatever,” Nate agrees flippantly. “Just get out.”

They shuffle out the door, and Nate lets it swing shut with a heavy sigh, turning to face his empty house.

With a willful singlemindedness, he collects all the pizza boxes and empty beer bottles; wipes down the counters, the fridge, the floor; vacuums under the rug and couches; and even dusts the bookshelves when he still feels anxious worry for Cale buzzing under his skin. When he’s finished in the kitchen and den, he moves onto the guest bedrooms and the study he never uses, fluffing pillows and reorganizing books until his head spins.

Exhausted but wide awake, he collapses on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. He should sleep; he wants to sleep. But there’s a restless energy zipping through his system, pressing at the dull ache in his chest, and demanding that he check up on Cale. He needs to know if he’s okay. He needs to know what he did wrong. He needs to fix things, needs to make things right.

Cale shouldn’t be so tired seven weeks into the season. He shouldn’t look exhausted and beaten down, especially not when he’s putting up the kind of numbers he is. He shouldn’t be sad. Not now, not ever. He should be happy and smiling, cheeks flushed with a healthy red glow. He should be sleeping well, should be sleeping next to Nate.

The thought slices through him, and he tries to shut it down, tries to shove it into a box and sequester it away in his thoughts until he can reopen it and not feel like he’s falling apart. He tries to imagine the box, tries to see its cubic shape and feel its rough cardboard. It’s in his hands; it’s there. He just needs to stick the thought in, just shove it in there and slam the lid shut.

He needs to.

He needs to.

A knock echoes through the house, and he sits up in shock, heart racing as his imaginary box slips away. He knuckles at his eyes blearily and staggers to his feet.

If he opens that door and Tyson is standing there wanting to talk, he’s going to kill him. Teammate and best friend status be damned.

Already pissed, he pulls the door open and fixes a glare on the unwanted guest.

“What—” he breathes out, stunned. He blinks owlishly at Cale. “Are you actually here?”

Cale’s brows arch in surprise. “What?”

“You’re not actually here, are you?” Nate demands, realization dawning. “I’m asleep. I’m definitely asleep.” There’s no other explanation. He must have fallen asleep on the couch, and for some goddamned, fucked up reason, the universe decided to make him jump again. Fuck this. “This isn’t actually happening.”

Cale’s lips twist in a frown, but Nate doesn’t care if this world’s Cale is confused. He doesn’t care because this isn’t his life, this isn’t his reality, and this sure as fuck isn’t his Cale.

“What are you talking about?” Cale asks, concern marring his features. “I’m right here. I don’t—you’re not—”

He falls silent, and Nate can only stare because of course Cale thinks he’s really there. This is his reality, his Nate. Nothing about this is wrong to him; nothing about this is heartbreakingly different from his own life.

“I’ve never told you about the cilantro, but you know I don’t like it,” Cale suddenly says, gaze intent, and Nate doesn’t understand why that’s important or relevant right now. “You told me not to eat that food because it had cilantro in it.”

This…this is his Cale. Holy fucking shit, this is his Cale.

“I’ve been to your house before,” Cale continues, and Nate feels his mouth drop. There’s no way. There’s no fucking way. “I—I’ve been to our house before,” Cale amends, and a hope so pure it aches wells up in Nate at the words. “I know where the bathroom is, and I know what pictures are hanging in the living room. I’ve been here so many times, I could probably walk around with my eyes shut.”

God, this isn’t possible. This isn’t possible, but it’s happening. It’s fucking happening.

Cale is breathing shallowly, chest rising and falling quickly. “You want—” he begins and pauses, choking on the words. “You want to name your kids Abby and Noah,” he murmurs, voice thick with tears.

Feeling braver than he has in months, Nate reaches a hand out and wraps his fingers gently around Cale’s wrist, stomach fluttering. Carefully, he pulls him inside and shuts the door behind them.

“Abby and Noah,” Cale says again, wide-eyed. “Our Abby and Noah.”

The words drag an awful, relieved noise from Nate’s gut, and he lifts a shaky hand to curl around Cale’s jaw. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, hoping with every fiber of his being that Cale won’t turn him away, not this time.

Nodding, Cale leans in and presses their lips together.

Nate feels it in his toes.

Drowning in everything that is Cale, he surges forward and licks at the seam of his lips, groaning when he opens easily and presses into Nate, solid and real and here.

He’s really here.

Cale loops an arm around Nate’s waist and tugs him forward until their hips slot together, groaning at the friction.

It’s the best fucking sound Nate’s ever heard.

Desperate to hear it again, he bites at Cale’s lips and slides a hand beneath his shirt, stroking worshipfully over warm skin and pulling him closer, closer. He needs him as close as he can get him, needs the tangible, physical reminder that this is happening.

Cale breaks the kiss, leans back, and stare at Nate, gaze shocked and awed. “Shit,” he murmurs like he can’t believe this either, like he’s just as amazed as Nate is.

It’s a strangely comforting thought, and Nate presses forward, backing Cale up until he’s caught between Nate and the door, moving sinuously against him.

God, this would so much better naked, no rough fabric or frustrating layers in between. Nate knows it would be better, has felt it before, and he suddenly realizes there’s no reason he can’t feel it again. Cale is here, and he clearly wants Nate just as much as he wants him.

Eagerly, Nate gropes at the hem of his shirt and tugs ineffectually, frustrated when he realizes he needs to pull away if he wants to get Cale naked.

“Why are you wearing clothes?” he demands, and Cale pulls back immediately.

He grabs the neck of his shirt, tugs it over his head, and throws it at their feet. “Me?” he asks, reaching out for Nate. “Why the hell are you wearing clothes? I had to drive here. I couldn’t do that naked.” He sets his teeth against Nate’s jaw in punishment, and a shiver wracks through him. “This is your house,” he says. “You should not be wearing pants.”

Unhappy with the words and their still-present clothes, Nate gets his own shirt off and wraps his hands around Cale’s hips. “This is _our_ house,” he mutters firmly and drags Cale forward.

Moaning obscenely, Cale hooks an arm around Nate’s neck and fists a hand in his hair to drag him into a kiss. It’s rough and insistent, teeth and tongues working furiously.

When they make it to the family room, Nate backs them up until he tips over the arm of the couch and pulls Cale down with him. He comes easily, so fucking easily, and slots a thigh between Nate’s legs, giving him the friction he desperately needs.

“Fuck. Fuck, I’ve missed you,” Nate groans, relishing the feel of Cale over him, with him for the first time in months.

For the first time ever.

Cale pulls up onto his hands and knees, and Nate whines in protest, unhappy with even the smallest space between them. “We should talk about this,” Cale says like the reasonable, mature adult Nate knows he is.

“Or we could keep doing this and worry about talking later,” Nate retorts with a dirty roll of his hips because he doesn’t want to be reasonable or mature right now. He just wants to be naked.

“We really should talk first,” Cale insists, and Nate runs the flat of his tongue up the side of Cale’s neck, tasting sweat and something uniquely Cale. “Nate,” he sighs, and it’s like music to his ears. “Nate.”

“Fuck, you sound so good,” he hisses and strokes a hand down Cale’s side, savoring the shiver he elicits and letting his fingers tease at the waistband of his jeans, tugging gently at the fabric.

“Nate,” he says, strained, “we need to talk, seriously.”

“What is there to talk about?” Nothing, there’s nothing to talk about. Nate swirls his thumb over the button of Cale’s jeans. “I want this; you want this. And if you stop talking, we can have it.”

Satisfied with his answer, he moves to unhook the button, but Cale wraps a tight hand around his wrist. “What even is this?” he demands. “What are we doing?” Nate raises a brow, and Cale rolls his eyes. “I don’t just mean this, right now. I mean all of it. I mean the last six months and the crazy dreams that I think you might have had too because there’s no other explanation for the things you know—”

“I had the dreams all summer,” Nate responds, hoping a quick response will end the conversation sooner, “but not since I’ve been back in Denver.”

Cale lets him go, and Nate gleefully slides the button out of the hole. Cale stops him again. “But what does it even mean that we had dreams about each other all summer?” he asks, brow furrowed. “Were they dreams of the future? Were they different universes we could be living in? Were they visions?”

Any of those, all of them. Nate doesn’t really care. “Does it matter?”

“Does it—? Of course it matters!” Cale cries, and he rocks away from Nate, settling on his heels.

Though he’d much rather pull Cale down and continue, he doesn’t think Cale would be quite as receptive this time. “Why?” he asks, sitting up. “All that really matters is that we both want this.” And it’s true. That’s all that matters. Knowing Cale wants him back is more than enough for Nate.

“But what if we only want this because of the dreams? What if we’re not really thinking straight and have both let ourselves be influenced by the dreams?” They sound like questions he’s asked himself a million times, practiced and rote. “What if we’re only doing this because we think we’re supposed to? What if we decide in a month or a year that we don’t actually want this and that it was just a crazy thing brought on by the dreams?”

Blowing out a slow breath, Nate rests a hand on Cale’s thigh. “I don’t think any of that is actually important.”

Cale’s eyes go wide. “But it is! I don’t want us to jump into something because we think we’re supposed to or because we assume that’s the way things are going to be. I don’t want to do something now or later that we’ll end up regretting. I don’t want—”

“Cale,” he says, annoyed but fond.

“Yes?”

“I love you,” he tells him, pointblank, and Cale’s mouth falls open.

“What?”

He catches Cale’s eye and holds his gaze. “I love you.”

“You don’t—no,” Cale stammers in disbelief. “You can’t love me. You barely know me.”

“I can, and I do.”

Cale shakes his head. “You just love the person who was in your dreams.”

“Sure,” Nate shrugs, “but only because he’s you.”

Cale blinks at him. “You mean because I’m him.”

“No, I don’t,” Nate says firmly, and Cale eyes him, unconvinced.

With a sigh, Nate flops back against the cushions and opens an arm in invitation. Cale seems hesitant, but he moves forward and settles against Nate’s chest, resting a hand over his heart and tucking his head beneath his chin. Nate loops an arm around him and pulls him closer, pressing a soft kiss to his wild hair.

“I already thought you were amazing before the dreams even started,” Nate confesses into the silky strands. “The way that you came in last season and just kicked ass, it was insane. You showed up and did your thing, super calm and zen, even though you’d never played a single game in the NHL. It was incredible.

“And you were—are—the nicest person I’ve ever met, polite and friendly and always smiling. Like nothing ever seems to get you down, and I know that’s not true, but even when things aren’t great, you’re still there with a smile, like you know things will get better, like you’re going to make them better somehow.”

Cale doesn’t say anything, but he does cuddle closer, body melting against Nate’s in the most satisfying way.

“And you work harder than anyone I know,” Nate continues, feeling more confident with every word, “and I know a hell of a lot of people who work hard, so that’s really saying something. You’re always watching film or working out in the gym or practicing something on the ice, and it makes me want to be better, to work harder than I do because I don’t want to be left behind. You’re going to do amazing things; you already do. And I want to be there for all of it, want to be a part of making it happen.”

Cale’s lips brush against his throat, and a pleasant shiver runs down Nate’s spine.

“I already knew all of that before the dreams,” he says breathily, “but once they started, I realized I could have a hell of a lot more with you than a couple Stanley Cups. It was weird at first,” he admits because honesty is important in any relationship, he knows. Cale presses a delicate kiss to his skin. “I was honestly freaking out the first time I woke up with you, but it got easier each time, and I kind of started to hate waking up in real life because you were never really there.”

He tightens his arm around Cale to remind himself that this is real. He’s here. He’s Nate’s.

“I didn’t want them to end,” he murmurs, “but they always did. Then, when I got here, I realized I should do something about it because I could have all of that for real. I could go to sleep next to you and wake up next to you outside of the dreams.”

Cale tenses minutely. “But I didn’t let you,” he says brokenly.

“No, you didn’t, and I thought it was me. I thought I was probably being too weird or forward about it, and you didn’t know how to turn me down, so you just decided to avoid me.”

Cale lifts his head and stares at Nate. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t know, and I didn’t think I’d be able to act normal around you, so I thought it would be easier not to be around you at all, that way I wouldn’t even be tempted to do or say anything that could mess things up.”

Nate snorts. “How’d that turn out?”

“Overall, pretty well,” Cale answers, arching up into the hand Nate has pressed to the small of his back. “Turns out I should’ve been more worried about how much you want all up on this instead of you not wanting anything to do with me.”

The joke sets Nate at ease more than any other words could. “Up on that,” he grins, “down on it. I’ll take it however I can get it.”

Cale wrinkles his nose, and Nate is endeared.

“Still not impressed with my smooth lines?”

Cale smiles down at him. “There’s a story there that I want to hear,” he says and fights off a yawn, “but I’m too tired to appreciate it right now. Like, I could fall asleep in the next two seconds.”

Nate already knows he hasn’t been sleeping much, but to hear it from Cale makes something in his chest twist. “Haven’t slept well?”

“The bed was empty and so were my dreams,” Cale admits, “and I didn’t know what to do about any of it.”

Nate hates the thought of Cale in bed alone, stressed and worried over something that was always going to be a sure thing. “It was also the wrong bed,” he tells him, and Cale grins.

“Yeah?”

Nate nods. “I have a great bed. You’d love it. I’d love you in it.”

Cale’s grin widens, crinkling his eyes and stretching his cheeks. “I’m sure you meant that in some cute, romantic way, but it really just came across as a bad innuendo.”

“It was a romantic innuendo,” Nate retorts. “Best of both worlds.”

Cale pushes away and crawls off the couch with a laugh. “How about we worry about the romance and innuendo tomorrow?” he suggests and holds a hand out for Nate. “Because I really wasn’t kidding. I could fall asleep on my feet right now.”

Nate wraps a hand in his and follows him up. “We wouldn’t want that,” he teases. “You’d end up busting your face on the coffee table, and we’d have to explain to all the guys what you were doing at my house at three in the morning. They would absolutely not believe us, and we’d have to deal with them coming up with crazy conspiracy theories about our sex life for the rest of forever.”

Cale twines their fingers together and sets out in the direction of the bedroom. “We wouldn’t want that,” he grins, “especially since we don’t even have a sex life.”

“But we will,” Nate quickly corrects because they abso-fucking-lutely will.

Cale gives him a heated look over his shoulder. “We definitely will,” he says assuredly, and Nate feels something like joy mix in with the arousal. “But not until I’ve gotten a full night’s sleep because I tried to have sex with you in the dreams, but I woke up every time, so there’s no way I’m going to be anything but one hundred percent awake when we finally have sex.”

Nate is relieved to know that he wasn’t the only one frustrated by the cock-blocking, confusing rules that dictated the travels.

Licking his lips, he watches Cale undress and slip under the covers on his side of the bed.

Cale glances up at him and flushes. “What?”

Nate grins wider. “You know where my room is,” he says, dragging his own clothes off before diving under the covers and pulling Cale close.

“Thought it was our room,” Cale mumbles, and he shifts easily to accommodate the unrepentant invasion of his space.

Warmth blooms in Nate’s chest at the words, heady and intoxicating. “It is,” he agrees, and he presses a kiss to the bare skin of Cale’s shoulders.

Cale doesn’t reply, but he wraps their fingers together tightly and squeezes. Nate plants another kiss to his warm skin and settles in, feeling comfortable in his own bed for the first time in months.

\----

**Bonus Tyson POV**

“Gabe,” Tyson sighs as he pulls into the driveway, frowning at the car parked haphazardly by the curb between Nate’s house and his neighbor’s. “I already know that. I’m not going to try and make him talk about anything he doesn’t want to talk about.”

“I know you know that,” Gabe replies, and Tyson can picture the huffy expression even with miles between them. “I just also know that you can get carried away sometimes, and I don’t want you to do or say something that could upset him even more.”

Tyson rolls his eyes and slides out of the car. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think it’s necessary. These aren’t bribery doughnuts; they’re apology doughnuts. There’s a big difference.”

“And there’s also a fine line between the two.”

Fuck Gabe and his fortune-cookie wisdom. “Yeah, and I won’t cross it.”

“I don’t think you will, but I’m just warning you—”

“Looks like I’m here, Gabe,” Tyson interrupts, strolling up the steps. “I’d love to chat more, but I can’t.”

“Tyson—”

“Bye,” he says cheerily and hangs up. Grinning, he shoves the phone in his pocket and tries to wrangle his keys one-handed, shuffling through them until he finds the one for Nate’s house.

He slides it into the lock and nudges the door open, slipping inside before shutting it softly. As quietly as he can manage, he kicks his shoes off and drops his keys on the entryway table. There’s a shirt lying on the tiled floor that he’s pretty sure Nate was wearing yesterday, and he frowns.

Nate isn’t always the cleanest, but even he knows clothes don’t belong in the entryway.

As he makes his way towards Nate’s bedroom, Tyson can’t help but be impressed with the rest of the house. It’s cleaner than it was when Nate bought it, tile sparkling and counters pristine. Apparently, he really didn’t need their help last night…except for with that stray shirt.

Maybe Nate had pulled it off in some weird fit of rage or sadness, and he’d left it there as a…reminder? A statement? A cry for help? Tyson’s not sure, but he has doughnuts, and those can help with pretty much anything in his humble opinion.

When he’s passed the kitchen and family room, a familiar sound catches his attention: happy, breathy laughter that he hasn’t heard in far too long. A grin breaks over his face, and he speeds up. He’d expected a red-eyed, grumpy, possibly hungover Nate, so this is a pleasant surprise. Sneaking forward on tiptoe, he grabs the knob and gently eases the bedroom door open.

Nate laughs again. “Come on,” he says, voice strange. “I swear you’re slower now than when we were middle-aged parents.”

What the hell? Tyson does not understand. Sure, he understands the words, knows what each of them means individually, but stringed together like that, they make no sense.

There’s an indignant huff. “Excuse me if I’m trying to be careful,” a second voice says, and Tyson nearly drops the apology doughnuts.

Oh my god, that’s a guy. There is a guy in Nate’s room—in his bed probably—and Tyson is freaking the fuck out. Dear god, Nate better not be hooking up with some random dude from Grindr right now. Oh hell no! Not after his vehement disapproval of Tyson’s get-over-Cale plan.

“It’s not like this is the first time we’ve done this,” Nate says, and Tyson’s mouth drops.

Not the—

What the fuck?

Nate’s had gay sex before? Nate’s had gay sex with Grindr Dude before? And he didn’t tell Tyson? What the hell happened to BFFLs, huh?

Tyson is offended.

“Technically,” Grindr Dude says, and Tyson can just imagine the ugly smirk on his stupid face, “this is the first time. I don’t think those others count.”

“They definitely do,” Nate says, and Tyson didn’t even know his voice could do that.

“Pretty sure they don’t.”

Nate groans, part frustration and part arousal if Tyson had to guess. “Fine, whatever, they don’t count. That still doesn’t mean you have to go slower than a fucking turtle.”

Grindr Dude laughs, and Tyson could swear he’s heard that laugh before, knows it from somewhere. “Did you just compare me to a turtle while we’re in bed?”

Not that Tyson had any doubts, but now he has verbal confirmation of the situation.

What the fucking hell is Nate doing? Idiot.

“Yeah,” Nate says, “because you are. You could already be in me now if it didn’t take you ten minutes to get another finger in.”

Tyson barely bites down on a shocked gasp. Nate can bottom? What the fuck? When did he learn how to do that?

“Oh my god,” Grindr Dude groans. “We’ll have the rest of our lives for rushed quickies, and I know for a fact that you’re going to get sick of them real fast and wish that we could take things slowly again, but we won’t be able to because we’ll have two kids bursting in whenever they want.”

Tyson is so confused.

Is this like a weird roleplay thing? Does Nate have some hidden domestic kink he’s never told Tyson about?

“Yeah, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Nate tells him. “But for now, I really just need you to finish with the prep, so we can move on to the good stuff.”

“Bossy,” Grindr Dude huffs, but he doesn’t sound opposed to the offer.

Tyson cannot let this happen. He doesn’t care if Nate’s trying to heal his broken heart by playing house with some cheap, Grindr hookup. He’s his best friend; he won’t let him drown his sorrows in fake sex.

Well, the sex won’t be fake, but everything else will be.

With a fortifying breath, Tyson pushes the door fully open. “Nate, don’t!” he shouts, stepping into the room with the box in front of him like a shield. “I brought doughnuts and—”

The rest of the words are drowned out by twin exclamations of shock and embarrassment, and Tyson only has a second to take in the scene (Grindr Dude, who looks hella familiar, kneeling between Nate’s splayed legs with one hand resting on his knee and the other hidden by Nate’s thighs) before there’s a flurry of activity, arms and legs flailing desperately as they struggle to haul the covers up and over them. Nate tries to shove a pillow over Grindr Dude’s face, but he sputters indignantly and pushes it away.

“Holy shit,” Tyson gasps, arms dropping, and all movement ceases. “Holy fucking shit.”

Nate turns toward him with a grimace, and Cale—fucking Cale!—blinks at him over Nate’s shoulders, cheeks flushed a heavy red.

“Tyson—” Nate begins.

“Oh my god!” Tyson says, speaking right over him. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious right now?”

Cale looks a little scared.

“It’s not—”

“Not what?” Tyson shouts frantically. “Not what it looks like? I swear to god, Nate, if you’re about to try and tell me that the rookie wasn’t two seconds away from fucking you, I will kill you and disown you as my best friend.”

Cale’s cheeks get impossibly darker at the words, and Nate opens his mouth in protest.

“Don’t say anything!” Tyson interrupts shrilly. “Whatever you’re about to say is going to be stupid and a lie, and I don’t want to hear it.”

Nate snaps his mouth shut.

Nearly shaking from the shock and anger, Tyson takes a few deep breaths. In then out. In then out. “Now,” he says, trying to stay calm, “I’m going to go to the kitchen; you two are going to put clothes on; and we are going to have a conversation about whatever the hell this is. Got it?”

They both nod mutely, and Tyson spins on his heel, walks out the door, and closes it loudly in his wake. He stops just passed the threshold and carefully presses his ear to the crack.

“Oh my god,” Cale says, mortified. “Nate, oh my god. He just—Tyson—he saw—”

“I know,” Nate says. Tyson thinks he says something else after, but he speaks too lowly for the words to be understandable with an inch and a half of wood and twenty feet in between.

“I think I prefer them walking in on us,” Cale says, and Tyson’s brow furrows in confusion. “At least, they knew there was a chance we’d be…you know.”

Nate snorts in amusement, and Tyson still can’t believe he’s laughing again, smiling and carefree. “We’ll just have to get better with locks.”

“Or we should just not give house keys to teammates, so they can’t walk in whenever they want.”

We? Since when are they a we?

Nate hums, or he’s maybe saying something again, too quiet for Tyson to hear.

Cale mumbles something in return.

“What was that?” Nate asks, teasing and intimate.

Cale repeats whatever he said.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite hear that.”

“I said I love you!” Cale shouts, exasperated but happy, and Tyson gapes.

“I love you, too,” Nate replies easily.

They fall silent after that, mouths most likely occupied with other activities, and Tyson steps away from the door. Shocked, he makes his way toward the kitchen, mind replaying the words and the scene he’d walked in on over and over.

They love each other. They’ve—maybe?—had sex before. They talk about the future and kids like it’s already a done deal for them.

Tyson is confused, supremely confused.

And after walking in on his best friend and one of their teammates about to get busy, he thinks he deserves some answers.

“Hey assholes!” he shouts. “You better be in here in the next two minutes, or I’m going to live stream this shit to the whole team.”

There’s a shout of outrage and another of fear, and Tyson can hear them crashing around the room, pulling open drawers, and throwing on clothes. Satisfied, he flips open the box of doughnuts and selects a custard-filled beauty.

A minute later, Nate and Cale come stumbling in with flushed cheeks and clasped hands, and Tyson sighs, put-out but secretly happy.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing toward the chairs opposite him and pulling the doughnuts close when Nate reaches for one. “No, no,” he tuts. “Doughnuts must be earned, Nathan.”

Nate looks pissed, and Cale looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but they sit down—unreasonably close in Tyson’s opinion—and face him like one would an executioner.

Setting his doughnut aside, Tyson steeples his fingers and leans forward. “First question,” he begins, “is Nate always the bottom?”

There’s a brief moment of silence.

“What the fuck?” Nate explodes, and Cale’s cheeks light up.

Tyson grins and settles in.


End file.
